Cowboy poetry - "Finished Shipping Cattle In The Fall" by Bruce Kiskaddon

<body> <embed SRC="cattlecall.mid" loop="-1" autostart="true" align="left" hidden="true"> <blockquote> <blockquote> <p align="center"> <img border="0" src="wdkoer1.gif" width="422" height="298"></p> <p align="center"><i>                <u><b>Cattle Drive</b></u> </i><b>by W. D. Koerner</b></p> <p align="left"><br>  </p> <div align="center"> <table border="5" width="65%" bgcolor="#000000" bordercolorlight="#808080" bordercolordark="#C0C0C0"> <tr> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#FFFFFF"> <b><font size="4">When They've Finished Shipping Cattle In The Fall</font></b> </font> </td> </tr> </table> </div> <p align="center"><font size="2" face="Arial,Helvetica">T</font><font size="2" face="Verdana">hough you're not exactly blue,<BR>Yet you don't feel like you do<BR>In the winter, or the long hot summer days.<BR>For your feelin's and the weather<BR>Seem to sort of go together,<BR>And you're quiet in the dreamy autumn haze.<BR>When the last big steer is goaded<BR>Down the chute, and safely loaded;<BR>And the summer crew has ceased to hit the ball;<BR>When a fellow starts to draggin'<BR>To the home ranch with the wagon --<BR>When they've finished shipping cattle in the fall.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>Only two men left a standin'<BR>On the job for winter brandin',<BR>And your pardner, he's a loafing by your side.<BR>With a bran-new saddle creakin',<BR>But you never hear him speakin',<BR>And you feel it's goin' to be a quiet ride.<BR>But you savvy one another<BR>For you know him like a brother--<BR>He is friendly but he's quiet, that is all;<BR>For he' thinkin' while he's draggin'<BR>To the home ranch with the wagon--<BR>When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>And the saddle hosses stringin'<BR>At an easy walk a swingin'<BR>In behind the old chuck wagon movin' slow.<BR>They are weary gaunt and jaded<BR>With the mud and brush they've waded,<BR>And they settled down to business long ago.<BR>Not a hoss is feelin' sporty,<BR>Not a hoss is actin' snorty;<BR>In the spring the brutes was full of buck and bawl;<BR>But they 're gentle, when they're draggin'<BR>To the home ranch with the wagon --<BR>When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>And the cook leads the retreat<BR>Perched high upon his wagon seat,<BR>With his hat pulled 'way down furr'wd on his head.<BR>Used to make that old team hustle,<BR>Now he hardly moves a muscle,<BR>And a feller might imagine he was dead,<BR>'Cept his old cob pipe is smokin'<BR>As he lets his team go pokin',<BR>Hittin' all the humps and hollers in the road.<BR>No, the cook has not been drinkin'--<BR>He's just settin' there and thinkin'<BR>'Bout the places and the people that he knowed<BR>And you watch the dust a trailin'<BR>And two little clouds a sailin',<BR>And a big mirage like lakes and timber tall.<BR>And you're lonesome when you're draggin'<BR>To the home ranch with the wagon--<BR>When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>When you make the camp that night,<BR>Though the fire is burnin' bright,<BR>Yet nobody seems to have a lot to say,<BR>In the spring you sung and hollered,<BR>Now you git your supper swallered<BR>And you crawl into your blankets right away.<BR>Then you watch the stars a shinin'<BR>Up there in the soft blue linin'<BR>And you sniff the frosty night air clear and cool.<BR>You can hear the night hoss shiftin'<BR>As your memory starts driftin'<BR>To the little village where you went to school.<BR>With its narrow gravel streets<BR>And the kids you used to meet,<BR>And the common where you used to play baseball.<BR>Now you're far away and draggin'<BR>To the home ranch with the wagon<BR>For they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>And your school-boy sweetheart too,<BR>With her eyes of honest blue--<BR>Best performer in the old home talent show.<BR>You were nothin' but a kid<BR>But you liked her, sure you did--<BR>Lord! And that was over thirty years ago.<BR>Then your memory starts to roam<BR>From Old Mexico to Nome.<BR>From the Rio Grande to the Powder River,<BR>Of the things you seen and done--<BR>Some of them was lots of fun<BR>And a lot of other things they make you shiver.<BR>'Bout that boy by name of Reid<BR>That was killed in a stampede--<BR>'Twas away up north, you helped 'em dig his grave,<BR>And your old friend Jim the boss<BR>That got tangled with a hoss,<BR>And the fellers couldn't reach in time to save.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>You was there when Ed got his'n--<BR>Boy that killed him's still in prison,<BR>And old Lucky George, he's rich and livin' high.<BR>Poor old Tom, he come off worst,<BR>Got his leg broke, died of thirst<BR>Lord but that must be an awful way to die.<BR><IMG height=1 hspace=5 src="brucekiskaddon_files/spacer.gif" width=1 vspace=4 border=0><BR>Then them winters at the ranches,<BR>And the old time country dances--<BR>Everybody there was sociable and gay.<BR>Used to lead 'em down the middle<BR>Jest a prancin' to the fiddle--<BR>Never thought of goin' home till the break of day.<BR>No! there ain't no chance for sleepin',<BR>For the memories come a creepin',<BR>And sometimes you think you hear the voices call;<BR>When a feller starts a draggin'<BR>To the home ranch with the wagon--<BR>When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.<br>                           Bruce Kiskaddon<br>  </font></p> <p align="center"> <img border="0" src="spurline.gif" width="433" height="39"><br>                                    <br>           <b><font size="3" color="#FFFFFF">           <![if !vml]><img border=0 width=191 height=33 src="finishedshipping_files/image001.gif" alt="Bruce Kiskaddon" v:shapes="_x0000_s1025"><![endif]><br>                       <img border="0" src="Kidkad1.jpg" width="170" height="241"></font></b>     <br>    Bruce Kiskaddon was born in the state of Pennsylvania in 1878; and he died in 1950.  He began his life as a working cowboy at the age of 20, in a place called Picket Wire. (This is the  cowboy pronunciation of Purgatory; and it is located where the Purgatory River runs in southern Colorado.)<br> <br>          He worked for a man called  Tap Duncan who was the owner of the Diamond Bar Ranch in Colorado.  In 1915, Kiskaddon started writing cowboy poetry while working on this ranch.   Cowboy poets were not popular at this time; but Duncan encouraged him to keep writing. His poems were eventually  published by the Los Angeles Times; and they featured his poems for the next 30 years. His book <u><i>"Rhymes And Ranches" </i></u>was published in 1947. In this book, Kiskaddon wrote about his cowboy life and work on the ranch.<br> <br>       While at the ranch, Kiskaddon lived the life of a true western cowboy. He was a wrangler, roper, and expert rider. He suffered through all kinds of intolerable weather from scorching desert heat to bone-chilling blizzards. His poetry has a vivid realism. He told it like it was without any embellishment.</p> </blockquote> <p align="center"> <b><a href="rangewriter.htm">HOME </a>      <a href="texasjack.html">NEXT POEM</a></b></p> </blockquote> <p> </p> <p> </p> </body>