Poetry Archives

The bunkhouse on the cattle ranch
   Was lowly, but at night
When its small window was aglow
   We hurried in that light,
And merrily we trooped within
   And flung our saddles down,
And there were tales for all to hear
   Told by the plainsmen brown.

The bunkhouse walls were papered o’er
   With scraps from everywhere—
With pictures of great battleships
   And ladies who were fair;
And all could read strange bits of news,
   While many comrades’ scrawls
Were written there, illegibly,
   Upon the bunkhouse walls.

I’ve traveled many miles since then
   But oft, when sets the sun,
I think about the bunkhouse, low,
   Where cowboys, one by one,
Came strolling in to chat and smoke
   And play a game of cards;
I’d even stand for their long snores—
   Where are you, good old pards!