This is the tale of a trooper -“ a fellow who had no God,
Who earned his pay on a scrubby bay at the left of a ragged squad;
Booted and spurred and cursing, with nary a thought of good,
He made but one of the rosters run of the Fighting Brotherhood.
Booted and spurred and cursing, he cantered the scrubby bay,
And none can tell of the desert spell that lured the man away.
Back came the mare to her masters -“ free of her reins and load,
But fast in the sheer of her saddle-gear, was a word from the man who rode.
" Water – gone, " he had written. " I reckon I got to quit!
I did have some, but the show-down come, and the mare was a-needin’ it
Only wanted a swaller, to cut out the dirt and sand!
I tried to tell the critter -“ but hell! she never could understand! "
Somewhere out in The Yonder -“ out on a scorching clod,
He’ s gone to sleep in a sun-dried heap -“ the fellow who had no God!
Yet when the Judgement’ s passing, and virtues are no more dim,
I sometimes think that a man like this will stand at the right of Him!