'Save your hoss for the hills ahead,' is the cowboy's placid song.
While his clear eyes follow the twinkling train as the Titan speeds along;
He grins as the tail lights die in space and a cloudless moon appears,
His free heart tuned to his pony's pace, he sings to the shuffling steers.
And, 'He's bustin' right into To-morrow, bronc; just splittin' the night in two;
I reckon he's got the right of way, but that's nothin' to me and you;
Oh, he'll make his time and we'll take our time with plenty of room to roam,
So it's save your hoss for the hills ahead and mebby you'll make it home.'
And these are the singers the outlands know, each with his work in hand,
In the lurching cab of the Desert Mail; in saddle and grazing land;
One who sings to the midnight herd, breathing his simple creed,
And one who hurtles through cloven space singing the song of speed.