They don't have nothin' more'n the duds on their backs, an' mebby their saddle blankets an' slickers.

But they kills beef to eat as they needs it, an' the ponies paws through the snow for grass, an' they exists along all right.

For all those snow-filled, wind-swept weeks they're ridin' an' cussin'.

They comes spatterin' through the rivers, an' swoopin' an' whoopin' over the divides that lays between.

They crosses the Heart an' the Cannon Ball an' the Cheyenne an' the White an' the Niobrara an' the Platte an' the Republican an' the Solomon an' the Smoky an' the Arkansaw, to say nothin' of the hundreds of forks an' branches which flows an' twines an' twists between; an' final, you runs up on boys along the Canadian who's come from the Upper Missouri.