But, remember please, aa gentler man,
Strong back,
Strong heart
Worked with his hands.
No roads to glory
No blazing forty-fives
Just ridin' dusty trails
Keepin' cattle alive.
Swaying in the saddle
From dawn until dark,
He only stopped to rest
Where the chuck-wagon parked.
Around a campfire with his compadres,
All just as alone as he,
He holds a small momento,
As he leans close to the flames to see.
In a packet in his saddle-bags,
A faded letter rests,
Edges, read ragged,
From the one that he loved best.
A tin-type in a locket,
And an auburn braid of hair,
A memory of her laughter...
A wish that he were there.
In the sage-brush as he's herding,
Sometimes his spirits sag,
He's just a lonesome cowboy,
Pushin' strays and ridin' drag.
No poetic words to praise him,
He rides 'til set of sun...
Hard days in the saddle,
That's how the West was won.
Copyright 1997 by Debra Coppinger Hill
All rights reserved.