He showed up in the springtime, when the geese began to honk;
He signed up with the outfit, and we fattened up his bronk;
His chaps were old and tattered, but he never seemed to mind,
‘Cause for worryin’ and frettin’ he had never been designed;
He’s the type of cattle-puncher that has vanished now, of course,
With his hundred-dollar saddle on his twenty-dollar horse.

He never seemed to bother over fortune’s ups and downs,
And he never quit his singin’ when the gang was full of frowns;
He would lose his roundup money in an hour of swift play,
But he never seemed discouraged when he ambled on his way.
He would hit the trail a-singin’, and his smile was out full force,
Though he’d lost his fancy saddle and he didn’t have a horse.

I have wondered where he wanders in these late, degenerate years,
When there are no boundless ranges, and there are no long-horn steers;
But I’ll warrant he is cheerful, though unfriendly is the trail,
And his cigarette is flowing, though his grub supply may fail,
For he had life’s happy secret — he had traced it to the source
In his hundred-dollar saddle on his twenty-dollar horse.