When walkin’ down a city street,
Two thousand miles from home,
The pavestones hurtin’ of the feet
That never ought to roam,
A pony jest reached to one side
And grabbed me by the clothes;
He smelled the sagebrush, durn his hide —
You bet a pony knows!

I stopped and petted him, and seen
A brand upon his side;
I’ll bet across the prairie green
He useter hit his stride;
Some puncher of the gentle cow
Had owned him — that I knows;
Which same is why he jest says: 'How!
There’s sagebrush in your clothes.'

He knowed the smell — no doubt it waked
Him out of some bright dream;
In some far stream his thirst is slaked—
He sees the mountains gleam;
He bears his rider far and fast,
And real the bull thing grows
When I come sorter driftin’ past
With sagebrush in my clothes.

Poor little hoss! It’s tough to be
Away from that fair land —
Away from that wide prairie sea
With all its vistas grand;
I feel for you, old hoss, I do —
It’s hard the way life goes;
I’d like to travel back with you —
Back where that sagebrush grows!