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Tim
Senior Member

since 1999-06-08

Posts 1794

0 posted 2003-07-02 11:55 PM

He rode alone on a weary trail,
...with many miles to roam
Before he'd lay his bedroll down,
...in a place that he'd call home.
He was down in Mexico,
...across the Rio Grande,
When he shot a tin-horn gamblin' man,
...who'd dealt a crooked hand,
The man had friends and so he ran,
...atop his buckskin mare,
He made it up to Amarillo,
....he done spent winter there,
Riding line for the Big Bar T,
...until spring touched the land,
Decided he would head out west,
...to see high mountains grand.
He cut across the Cimmaron,
...rode into Colorado,
Up into the Santa de Cristo's,
...peaks topped in virgin snow,
Up to the highest of the high,
...up near the Great Divide,
Where eagles soar and blizzards blow,
...and cowboys never ride.
It was the fourth day of July,
...in eighteen eighty four,
When a summer blizzard hit the peaks,
...a storm not seen before,
Our cowboy had no place to hide,
...he'd been taken by surprise,
No man nor beast could have survived,
...and so our cowboy dies.
He finally laid his bedroll down,
...no more a need to roam,
High up near the Great Divide,
...he finally found his home.

There is a road in Colorado,
...up near the Great Divide,
On July the Fourth, each year they say,
...where you can see a cowboy ride.
A buckskin mare with a well worn saddle,
...he rides till day is done,
Then he lays his bedroll on the ground,
...Could he be the one?

Martie

Moderator

Member Empyrean

since 1999-09-21

Posts 28049
California

1 posted 2003-07-03 01:52 AM

Tim...Quite a tale you tell here...much enjoyed!

passing shadows
Member Empyrean

since 1999-08-26

Posts 45577
displaced