“
Now reading
Old Hank
Driftin' along the rim-rock, old Camp-robber and I, Out on a scoutin' trip, circlin' the flat land dry, Cuttin' the sign of the cattle, watchin' which way they drift, Pullin' 'em out of the bog holes, givin' the weak ones a lift, Throwin' 'em back on the home range, each day in a different place, In slickers en leggins of leather, through sand-storms that blister your face. . . .. Boss in the ranch house rides easy-his days of worry are gone, For he made his pile in the old trail days, the days of the old long-horn. Yep, I'm only a worn-out old puncher-though the boss thinks a heap of me! For I was with him on the Pecos, in the Raid of Seventy- three! .... Then he married, en got him religion, en tells you how you mustn't do wrong; How a brand is the cow-man's protection-then he'll deal you a gospel song! But I'll tell you Old Hank was the slickest that ever laid line on a steer, Or burnt over a brand with a runnin'-iron, or worked on an old cow's ear! 'Course, friends, all this talk's confidential-I wouldn't want Old Hank to see That I haven't changed my damned religion, since the Trail Herd of Seventy-three!