When walkin down a city street,
Two thousand miles from home,
The pavestones hurtin of the feet
That never ought to roam,
A pony jest reached to one side
And grabbed me by the clothes;
He smelled the sagebrush, durn his hide
You bet a pony knows!
I stopped and petted him, and seen
A brand upon his side;
Ill bet across the prairie green
He useter hit his stride;
Some puncher of the gentle cow
Had owned him that I knows;
Which same is why he jest says: "How!
Theres sagebrush in your clothes."
He knowed the smell no doubt it waked
Him out of some bright dream;
In some far stream his thirst is slaked
He sees the mountains gleam;
He bears his rider far and fast,
And real the bull thing grows
When I come sorter driftin past
With sagebrush in my clothes.
Poor little hoss! Its tough to be
Away from that fair land
Away from that wide prairie sea
With all its vistas grand;
I feel for you, old hoss, I do
Its hard the way life goes;
Id like to travel back with you
Back where that sagebrush grows!
