There is some that likes the city—

Grass that's curried smooth and green,

Theaytres and stranglin' collars,

Wagons run by gasoline—

But for me it's hawse and saddle

Every day without a change,

And a desert sun a-blazin'

On a hundred miles of range.

Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—

Desert ripplin' in the sun,

Mountains blue along the skyline—

I don't envy anyone

When I'm ridin'.

When my feet is in the stirrups

And my hawse is on the bust,

With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'

From a cloud of golden dust,

And the bawlin' of the cattle

Is a-coming' down the wind

Then a finer life than ridin'

Would be mighty hard to find.

Just a-ridin, a-ridin'—

Splittin' long cracks through the air,

Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,

Rippin' up the prickly pear

As I'm ridin'.

I don't need no art exhibits

When the sunset does her best,

Paintin' everlastin' glory

On the mountains to the west

And your opery looks foolish

When the night-bird starts his tune

And the desert's silver mounted

By the touches of the moon.

Just a-ridin', a-ridin',

Who kin envy kings and czars

When the coyotes down the valley

Are a-singin' to the stars,

If he's ridin'?

When my earthly trail is ended

And my final bacon curled

And the last great roundup's finished

At the Home Ranch of the world

I don't want no harps nor haloes,

Robes nor other dressed up things—

Let me ride the starry ranges

On a pinto hawse with wings!

Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—

Nothin' I'd like half so well

As a-roundin' up the sinners

That have wandered out of Hell,

And a-ridin'.