A song of the range, an old-time song, <br />To the patter of pony's feet, <br />That he used to sing as we rode along, <br />In the hush of the noonday heat; <br />'Follow me out where the cattle graze, <br />Where the morning shadows fall, <br />On the far, dim trails of outland ways <br />That lead through the chaparral.' <br />There, where the red butte stands alone, <br />And the brush dies down to sand, <br />Is the name of a friend--a mound of stone, <br />And the sweep of this lonesome land. <br />His name is there, and a word or two, <br />And the brand that we used to run; <br />But his name could never mean much to you, <br />And the old, glad days are done. <br />'Follow me out where the free sons ride, <br />Where the young coyotes play; <br />Where the call of the quail from the mountain-side <br />Comes out of the morning gray.' <br />'Follow me out' -- a laugh, a word, <br />In the dust of the roundup, when <br />His horse went down in the milling herd, <br />A break in the haze--and then; <br />I dragged him free, and he tried to smile, <br />But his gaze was dim with Night; <br />'I'll rest by the butte a little while . . .' <br />And the bronze of his face went white. <br />So a singer rode in the sunlight space, <br />Past yucca and ridge and stone, <br />And a shadow with him, pace for pace, <br />His own, yet not his own.<br /><br />Henry Herbert Knibbs<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lone-red-rock/
