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A DANCE AT THE RANCH |
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F
ROM every point they gaily come, the broncho's
unshod feet Pat at the green sod of the range with quick, em-
phatic beat; The tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream
behind — Like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping
wind. The dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their sad-
dle thrones And sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncul-
tured tones, Or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers,
And pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears.
Within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly
gathered throng Buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with
song; The maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their
tongues full rein In efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain.
The fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and
scrape of bow, Finds one string keyed a note too high, another one
too low; H7 |
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