"WHAT care I, what cares he,
What cares the world of
the life we know?
Little they reck of the shadowless
plains,
The shelterless mesa, the sun and the rains,
The wild, free life, as the winds that blow."
With his
broad sombrero,
His worn chapparejos,
And clinking
spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds,
Where the wild bull
feeds;
And he laughs, ha, ha!�who cares, who cares!
Ruddy and brown�careless and free�
A king in the
saddle�he rides at will
O'er the measureless range where
rarely change
The swart gray plains so weird and strange,
Treeless, and streamless, and wondrous still!
With his
slouch sombrero,
His torn chapparejos,
And clinking
spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull
feeds;
And he laughs, ha, ha!�who cares, who cares!
He of the towns, he of the East,
Has only a vague,
dull thought of him;
In his far-off dreams the cowboy
seems
A mythical thing, a thing he deems
A Hun or a
Goth as swart and grim!
With his stained sombrero,
His
rough chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur
he speeds,
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs,
ha, ha!�who cares, who cares!
Often alone, his saddle
a throne,
He scans like a sheik the numberless herd;
In the hot white glare of a cloudless sky,
And the music
of streams is never heard.
With his gay sombrero,
His
brown chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur
he speeds,
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs,
ha, ha!�who cares, who cares!
Swift and strong, and
ever alert,
Yet sometimes he rests on the dreary vast;
And his thoughts, like the thoughts of other men,
Go back
to his childhood days again,
And to many a loved one in
the past.
With his gay sombrero,
His rude chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He rests awhile,
With a tear and a
smile,
Then he laughs, ha, ha!�who cares, who cares!
Sometimes his mood from solitude
Hurries him,
heedless, off to the town!
Where mirth and wine through
the goblet shine,
And treacherous sirens twist and twine
The lasso that often brings him down;
With his soaked
sombrero,
His rent chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He staggers back
On the homeward track,
And shouts to
the plains�who cares, who cares!
On his broncho's
back he sways and swings,
Yet mad and wild with the
city's fume;
His pace is the pace of the song he sings,
And the ribald oath that maudlin clings
Like the wicked
stench of the harlot's room.
With his ragged sombrero,
His torn chapparejos,
His rowel-less spurs,
He dashes
amain
Through the trackless rain;
Reeling and
reckless�who cares, who cares!
'T is over late at the
ranchman's gate�
He and his fellows, perhaps a score,
Halt in a quarrel o'er night begun,
With a ready blow and
a random gun�
There 's a dead, dead comrade! nothing
more.
With his slouched sombrero,
His dark chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He dashes past,
With face o'ercast,
And growls in his throat�who cares, who cares!
Away
on the range there is little change;
He blinks in the
sun, he herds the steers;
But a trail on the wind keeps
close behind,
And whispers that stagger and blanch the
mind
Through the hum of the solemn noon he hears.
With
his dark sombrero,
His stained chapparejos,
His
clinking spurs,
He sidles down
Where the grasses brown
May hide his face, while he sobs�who cares!
But what
care I, and what cares he�
This is the strain, common at
least;
He is free and vain of his bridle-rein,
Of his
spurs, of his gun, of the dull, gray plain;
He is ever
vain of his broncho beast!
With his gray sombrero,
And
clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds,
Where the
wild bull feeds;
And he laughs, ha, ha!�who cares! who
cares! |
