Classic Poem

I've sold the old ranch, stock and all,
And let my cowboys go;
I'm driftin' into town this fall,
'Long with the first deep snow;
I've stuck it out, the last cowman
'Twixt here and Painted Stone;
For forty years — a healthy span —
I've fought my fight alone.

I've fought the northers and the sheep,
I've won, and lost, and won;
But every year, at spring's first peep,
The old chuck wagon'd run;
Now it has vanished, with the rest —
Its round-up days are o'er —
The range is gone — I s'pose it's best —
And fate has closed the store.

Last night I dreamed of olden days,
When cattle roamed the hills
And cowboys rode the prairie ways —
No more their presence thrills —
I saw the moon shine through a rift,
On him who stood night guard,
But woke to find that I must drift,
Though driftin's hard, plumb hard!