​

A Toast:

To The Working Cowboy

 

By Harvey Mawson

Here's to the man who works

     wild cows in the brush.

He doesn't mind the breaks,

     or the high lonesome hush.

 

With a good saddle, fast horse,

     and thirty feet of stout rope

He'll hunt cows in places

     where a goat has no hope.

 

Chasing steers through the deadfalls,

     the humps, and the mire;

He'll ride plub through hell

     in spite of the fire.

 

Torn, bruised, and scraped,

     worn down to the nub;

This fellow is tough

     as a thorn apple club.

 

He doesn't like work,

     and will rest when he can;

But values very highly

     what work does for a man.

 His hide is like leather

     from the sun, wind, and rain.

He's familiar with snow,

     and frosts biting pain.

 

He minds his own business,

     never has much to say.

The only thing he's afraid of

     is tthat one might get away.

 

His battered old stetson is finer

     than a kings golden crown.

To him I raise my glass high,

     and quaff the brew down.

 

 

                                        For James Henrry (Jim)