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130 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS |
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Oh, rest not my pony, there's youth in my heart,
Out on the plains; And the wind sings a wild song to rob me of care, And there's room here to live and to love and to dare,—
Out on the plains.
THE PROSPECTOR
By N. Howard Thorp
Written at the Slash S W Ranch, on the door of the old ranch house, in the San Andreas Mountains.
Twelve years have I lived in this desolate place, Far from all habitation — not even a face Have I seen, save Apaches, those unwelcome guests, Pass me by as I work with my pick in the breast.
Am I one of the millions whose brain-string has snapped,
Who sees visions of gold in those canyons unmapped,
Unexplored, unprospected, that lay just ahead,
Near the Arc of the Bow where so many lie dead?
Like all miners I've visions, which may some day
come true, Of where I would go and what I would do — If I'd but once find the vein which carries the ore, My days of hard work would forever be o'er.
There's a frenzy of fury that boils in one's veins — Will it pay for the hardships, will it pay for my pains? 'T is a distorted finger that beckons, it seems, To the land of illusions, the place of my dreams. |
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