He stands upon the city street, keen-eyed, and brown of face,
He seems to bring a breath of air from some broad prairie space;
Hes perched upon a pair of heels that fit the stirrups curve,
That meet the bucking broncos plunge and counteract each swerve;
And of all the chaps with whom the gods are ever in cahoots
Give me the cattle-puncher in the high-heeled boots.
He brings a hint of wider skies, of ranges that are vast,
Of manful vigils in the days when sweeps the wintry blast;
All out of step with things in town, he sees the crowd surge by;
The sage is in his nostrils still he hears the gaunt wolf cry;
He rides as Alexander rode the bell rings when he shoots
The gallant cattle-puncher in the high-heeled boots.
He is the last of that old guard defending Cattle Land,
Those knights who jousted for the cause blood brothers of the brand;
But now theyve fenced the water-hole, theyre harrowing the plain,
Theyre changing all the sagebrush flats to fields of waving grain;
The cowmen will be gone, they say, and there are no recruits
Good-bye, brave cattle-puncher in the high-heeled boots!
