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Filled with trust; and the milling cows
Forget stampeding and start to browse,
For the voice of the herder has set them right.
Give me one more day of the old free land,
TJncursed by a road or a barbed-wire strand;
A horse to ride and the sight, as I pass
Of a thousand horns rising out of the grass,
And I'll push back my chair and lay down my
hand! Let me ride, old-timer, ride into the west, Till I'm lost in the sunset upon the crest — And with it draw down to whatever lies On the range that's hid till we top the rise; Where the round-up boss has staked out what's
best. Old Milk River Blake and Big Sag Bill, And Jack and Jake, at the top o' the hill, Are waiting to ride like we used to ride At the round-up camp down the Great Divide, Till the boss of aU herders sings, "Peace, be still."
OL' DYNAMITE By Phil Le Noir
The outlaw stands with blindfold eyes,
His feet set wide apart; His coal-black hide gleams in the sun —
Thar'S killin' in his heart.
A puncher squats upon his heels,
His saddle at his side; He's sizin' up 01' Dynamite,
That he is booked to ride.