Out among the big things — The heights that gleam afar — A feller gets to wonder What means each distant star; He may not get an answer, But somehow,… - Arthur Chapman

We used to run a cow-ranch,
In all that old term meant,
But all our ancient glories
In recent years have went;
We’re takin’ summer boarders,
And, puttin’ it quite rude,
It’s now the cowboy’s province
To herd the festive dude.

The sheep are down at the water, a-drinkin' their bloomin' fill,
An' me and the dog are dozin', as herders and collies will;
The world may be movin' somewheres, but here it is standin' still.

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 they’ve fenced the water-hole, they’re harrowing the plain,
They’re 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!