Cowboy Poetry: No Rest for the Horse

[bookblather]

What is cowboy poetry?

Cowboy poetry is peculiarly associated with the history of the American West. Cowboys were (and are) employed by cattle ranchers to care for the cattle, drive them to pasture, and, before the rise of the railroad, drive them north to the meat-packing industrial towns. It is hard, dusty, dirty work, and often very lonely work. A cowboy could go days without seeing anyone except two or three fellow cowboys and his horse. Outside entertainment was rare, so it became common for cowboys to gather at night and entertain each other with songs and stories.

Cowboy poetry is often very lyrical, blurring the lines between poem and song. It often has a distinct rhythm, like hands clapping, the more so the more traditional it is. It usually focuses on cowboy life, ranch work and workers, the landscape, and other related topics. It almost always is narrative in some form. The sound of it is particularly important: cowboy poetry is meant to be read aloud, or sung.

Today, I have a traditional cowboy poem to share, about a central theme of cowboy poetry and cowboy life: the horse.


There's a union for teamster and waiter,
There's a union for cabman and cook,
There's a union for hobo and preacher,
And one for detective and crook.

There's a union for blacksmith and painter,
There is one for the printer, of course;
But where would you go in this realm of woe,
To discover a guild for the horse?

He can't make a murmur in protest,
Though they strain him both up and down hill,
Or force him to work twenty hours
At the whim of some drunken brute's will.

Look back at our struggle for freedom—
Trace our present day's strength to its source,
And you'll find that man's pathway to glory,
Is strewn with the bones of the horse.

The mule is a fool under fire;
The horse, although frightened, stands true,
And he'd charge into hell without flinching
'Twixt the knees of the trooper he knew.

When the troopers grow old they are pensioned,
Or a berth or a home for them found;
When a horse is worn out they condemn him,
And sell him for nothing a pound.

Just think, the old pet of some trooper
Once curried and rubbed twice a day,
Now drags some damned ragpicker's wagon,
With curses and blows for his pay.

I once knew a grand king of racers,
The best of a cup-wining strain;
They ruined his knees on a hurdle,
For his rider's hat covered no brain.

I met him again, four years later,
On his side at the foot of a hill,
With two savages kicking his ribs,
And doing their work with a will.

I stroked the once velvety muzzle,
I murmured the old name again,
He once filled my purse with gold dollars;
And this day I bought him for ten.

His present address is "Sweet Pastures,"
He has nothing to do but eat,
Or loaf in the shade on the green, velvet grass,
And dream of the horses he beat.

Now, a dog—well, a dog has a limit;
After standing for all that's his due,
He'll pack up his duds some dark evening,
And shine out for scenes which are new.

But a horse, once he's used to his leather,
Is much like the old-fashioned wife;
He may not be proud of his bargain,
But still he'll be faithful through life.

And I envy the merciful teamster
Who can stand at the bar and say:
"Kind Lord, with the justice I dealt my horse,
Judge Thou my soul today."

This poem is in the public domain.


To me, this poem has all the hallmarks of a cowboy poem: the distinct rhythm and song-like words, the focus on horses as central to life, a vaguely narrative format. It shows pride in horses, and pity for the ones mistreated, kindness on behalf of the speaker, and condemnation of those who mistreat horses. Even the rhythm sounds like a cantering horse, coming in sharp threes and hard beats.

Read this poem out loud: what does it sound like to you?