Poetry Archives

The old yaller slicker’s the cowpuncher’s friend—
His saddle is never without it—
It’s rolled in a bundle and tied at each end,
But it’s ready for service, don’t doubt it.

When the sun bathes the hills in a dazzling flow
Across which the cloud shadows flicker,
Then the night-herd’s asleep, where the round-up tents show,
With his head on his old yaller slicker.

But in days when the rain drives aslant o’er the range,
And the far hills the storm king is hiding,
Then the old yaller slicker gleams ghostlike and strange
Where the tireless cowboy is riding.

Oh, it’s wrinkled and torn, and it never looks new—
In the town it would stir up a snicker—
But the style can go hang—it’s a friend tied and true,
is the cowpuncher’s old yaller slicker.