Bruce Kiskaddon


These are just a few rhymes of old friends and old times,
And I hope before I am through –
Just once in a while they will bring a broad smile,
To the face of some old buckaroo.

Wherever he worked in the days that are past,
On the mountain, the plain or the valley,
What matters is now if he tied hard and fast,
Or tumbled his steer with a dally.

If he wrangled the bunch, if he rode gentle strings,
If he topped off the wild ones that shimmy –
If he rode with his leathers through centre fire rings,
Or sat on a double-rigged rimmy.

If he worked for big outfits far out on the plains,
Where they never had use for a packer,
Or back in the hills in the snow and the rains,
With the regular old greasy sacker.

If he worked as a drifter and trusted to luck,
If he managed a bunch of his own;
If he cooked at the wagon and put up the chuck,
Or held down a line camp alone.

They are plain simple tales, of the round-ups and trails,
When he worked on the range with the cattle;
Not of wild woolly nights, nor of gambling hall fights,
But the days and the nights in the saddle.

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