The Cowboy

The Round Up

N.C. Wyeth

(1904)

"What care I, what cares he,

What cares the world of the life we know?

Little they reck of the shadowless plains,

The shelterless mesa, the sun and the rains,

The wild free life, as the winds that blow."

With his broad sombrero,

His worn chaparajos,

And clinking spurs,

Like a Centaur he speeds,

Where the wild bull feeds;

And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares!

Ruddy and brown-careless and free-

A king in the saddle-he rides at will

O'er the measureless range where rarely change

The swart gray plains so weird and strange,

Treeless, and streamless, and wondrous still!

With his slouch sombrero,

His torn chaparajos,

And clinking spurs,

Like a Centaur he speeds,

Where the wild bull feeds;

And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares!

He of the towns, he of the East,

Has only a vague, dull thought of him;

In his far-off dreams the cowboy seems

A mythical thing, a thing he deems

A Hun or a Goth as swart and grim!

With his stained sombrero,

His rough chaparajos,

And clinking spurs,

Like a Centaur he speeds,

Where the wild bull feeds;

And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares!

Swift and strong, and ever alert,

Yet sometimes he rests on the dreary vast;

And his thoughts, like the thoughts of other men

Go back to his childhood days again,

And to many a loved one in the past.

With his gay sombrero,

His rude chaparajos,

And clinking spurs,

He rests a while,

With a tear and a smile,

Then he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares-who cares?

"My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys"

Willie Nelson

"The Cowboy"

John Antrobus

(1837-1907)

British-born American 

poet and artist