10 Best Famous Bronco Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Bronco poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bronco poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bronco poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bronco poems.

• All Famous Bronco Poems

 Alphonso Rex who died in Rome
Was quite a fistful as a kid;
For when I visited his home,
That gorgeous palace in Madrid,
The grinning guide-chap showed me where
He rode his bronco up the stair.

That stairway grand of marbled might,
The most majestic in the land,
In statured splendour, flight on flight,
He urged his steed with whip in hand.
No lackey could restrain him for
He gained the gilded corridor.

He burst into the Royal suite,
And like a cowboy whooped with glee;
Dodging the charger's flying feet
The Chamberlain was shocked to see:
Imagine how it must have been a
Grief to Mother Queen Christina!

And so through sheer magnificence
I roamed from stately room to room,
Yet haunted ever by the sense
Of tragical dynastic doom.
The walls were wailing: Kings must die,
Being plain blokes like you and I.

Well, here's the moral to my rhyme:
When memories more worthy fade
We find that whimsically Time
Conserves some crazy escapade.
So as I left I stood to stare
With humorous enjoyment where
Alphonso crashed the Palace stair.

 In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear
That who would wear the scarlet coat shall say good-bye to fear;
Shall be a guardian of the right, a sleuth-hound of the trail--
In the little Crimson Manual there's no such word as "fail"--
Shall follow on though heavens fall, or hell's top-turrets freeze,
Half round the world, if need there be, on bleeding hands and knees.
It's duty, duty, first and last, the Crimson Manual saith;
The Scarlet Rider makes reply: "It's duty--to the death."
And so they sweep the solitudes, free men from all the earth;
And so they sentinel the woods, the wilds that know their worth;
And so they scour the startled plains and mock at hurt and pain,
And read their Crimson Manual, and find their duty plain.
Knights of the lists of unrenown, born of the frontier's need,
Disdainful of the spoken word, exultant in the deed;
Unconscious heroes of the waste, proud players of the game,
Props of the power behind the throne, upholders of the name:
For thus the Great White Chief hath said, "In all my lands be peace",
And to maintain his word he gave his West the Scarlet Police.

Livid-lipped was the valley, still as the grave of God;
 Misty shadows of mountain thinned into mists of cloud;
Corpselike and stark was the land, with a quiet that crushed and awed,
 And the stars of the weird sub-arctic glimmered over its shroud.

Deep in the trench of the valley two men stationed the Post,
 Seymour and Clancy the reckless, fresh from the long patrol;
Seymour, the sergeant, and Clancy--Clancy who made his boast
 He could cinch like a bronco the Northland, and cling to the prongs of the Pole.

Two lone men on detachment, standing for law on the trail;
 Undismayed in the vastness, wise with the wisdom of old--
Out of the night hailed a half-breed telling a pitiful tale,
 "White man starving and crazy on the banks of the Nordenscold."

Up sprang the red-haired Clancy, lean and eager of eye;
 Loaded the long toboggan, strapped each dog at its post;
Whirled his lash at the leader; then, with a whoop and a cry,
 Into the Great White Silence faded away like a ghost.

The clouds were a misty shadow, the hills were a shadowy mist;
 Sunless, voiceless and pulseless, the day was a dream of woe;
Through the ice-rifts the river smoked and bubbled and hissed;
 Behind was a trail fresh broken, in front the untrodden snow.

Ahead of the dogs ploughed Clancy, haloed by steaming breath;
 Through peril of open water, through ache of insensate cold;
Up rivers wantonly winding in a land affianced to death,
 Till he came to a cowering cabin on the banks of the Nordenscold.

Then Clancy loosed his revolver, and he strode through the open door;
 And there was the man he sought for, crouching beside the fire;
The hair of his beard was singeing, the frost on his back was hoar,
 And ever he crooned and chanted as if he never would tire:--

"I panned and I panned in the shiny sand, and I sniped on the river bar;
But I know, I know, that it's down below that the golden treasures are;
So I'll wait and wait till the floods abate, and I'll sink a shaft once more,
And I'd like to bet that I'll go home yet with a brass band playing before."

He was nigh as thin as a sliver, and he whined like a Moose-hide cur;
 So Clancy clothed him and nursed him as a mother nurses a child;
Lifted him on the toboggan, wrapped him in robes of fur,
 Then with the dogs sore straining started to face the Wild.

Said the Wild, "I will crush this Clancy, so fearless and insolent;
 For him will I loose my fury, and blind and buffet and beat;
Pile up my snows to stay him; then when his strength is spent,
 Leap on him from my ambush and crush him under my feet.

"Him will I ring with my silence, compass him with my cold;
 Closer and closer clutch him unto mine icy breast;
Buffet him with my blizzards, deep in my snows enfold,
 Claiming his life as my tribute, giving my wolves the rest."

Clancy crawled through the vastness; o'er him the hate of the Wild;
 Full on his face fell the blizzard; cheering his huskies he ran;
Fighting, fierce-hearted and tireless, snows that drifted and piled,
 With ever and ever behind him singing the crazy man.

 "Sing hey, sing ho, for the ice and snow,
 And a heart that's ever merry;
 Let us trim and square with a lover's care
 (For why should a man be sorry?)
 A grave deep, deep, with the moon a-peep,
 A grave in the frozen mould.
 Sing hey, sing ho, for the winds that blow,
 And a grave deep down in the ice and snow,
 A grave in the land of gold."

Day after day of darkness, the whirl of the seething snows; 
 Day after day of blindness, the swoop of the stinging blast; 
On through a blur of fury the swing of staggering blows;
 On through a world of turmoil, empty, inane and vast. 
Night with its writhing storm-whirl, night despairingly black;
 Night with its hours of terror, numb and endlessly long;
Night with its weary waiting, fighting the shadows back,
 And ever the crouching madman singing his crazy song.

Cold with its creeping terror, cold with its sudden clinch;
 Cold so utter you wonder if 'twill ever again be warm;
Clancy grinned as he shuddered, "Surely it isn't a cinch
 Being wet-nurse to a looney in the teeth of an arctic storm.

"The blizzard passed and the dawn broke, knife-edged and crystal clear;
 The sky was a blue-domed iceberg, sunshine outlawed away;
Ever by snowslide and ice-rip haunted and hovered the Fear;
 Ever the Wild malignant poised and panted to slay.

The lead-dog freezes in harness--cut him out of the team!
 The lung of the wheel-dog's bleeding--shoot him and let him lie!
On and on with the others--lash them until they scream!
 "Pull for your lives, you devils! On! To halt is to die."

There in the frozen vastness Clancy fought with his foes;
 The ache of the stiffened fingers, the cut of the snowshoe thong;
Cheeks black-raw through the hood-flap, eyes that tingled and closed,
 And ever to urge and cheer him quavered the madman's song.

Colder it grew and colder, till the last heat left the earth,
 And there in the great stark stillness the bale fires glinted and gleamed,
And the Wild all around exulted and shook with a devilish mirth,
 And life was far and forgotten, the ghost of a joy once dreamed.

Death! And one who defied it, a man of the Mounted Police;
 Fought it there to a standstill long after hope was gone;
Grinned through his bitter anguish, fought without let or cease,
 Suffering, straining, striving, stumbling, struggling on.

Till the dogs lay down in their traces, and rose and staggered and fell;
 Till the eyes of him dimmed with shadows, and the trail was so hard to see;
Till the Wild howled out triumphant, and the world was a frozen hell--
 Then said Constable Clancy: "I guess that it's up to me."

Far down the trail they saw him, and his hands they were blanched like bone;
 His face was a blackened horror, from his eyelids the salt rheum ran;
His feet he was lifting strangely, as if they were made of stone,
 But safe in his arms and sleeping he carried the crazy man.

So Clancy got into Barracks, and the boys made rather a scene;
 And the O. C. called him a hero, and was nice as a man could be;
But Clancy gazed down his trousers at the place where his toes had been,
 And then he howled like a husky, and sang in a shaky key: 

"When I go back to the old love that's true to the finger-tips, 
I'll say: `Here's bushels of gold, love,' and I'll kiss my girl on the lips;
It's yours to have and to hold, love.' It's the proud, proud boy I'll be,
When I go back to the old love that's waited so long for me."

 (With apologies to the singer of the "Song of the Banjo".)


I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
 I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a "vox humana" tone,
 And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
 I am more or less uncertain on the key;
But I tell you, boys, there's lots and lots of nights
 When you've taken mighty comfort out of me.

I weigh an ounce or two, and I'm so small
 You can pack me in the pocket of your vest;
And when at night so wearily you crawl
 Into your bunk and stretch your limbs to rest,
You take me out and play me soft and low,
 The simple songs that trouble your heartstrings;
The tunes you used to fancy long ago,
 Before you made a rotten mess of things.

Then a dreamy look will come into your eyes,
 And you break off in the middle of a note;
And then, with just the dreariest of sighs,
 You drop me in the pocket of your coat.
But somehow I have bucked you up a bit;
 And, as you turn around and face the wall,
You don't feel quite so spineless and unfit--
 You're not so bad a fellow after all.

Do you recollect the bitter Arctic night;
 Your camp beside the canyon on the trail;
Your tent a tiny square of orange light;
 The moon above consumptive-like and pale;
Your supper cooked, your little stove aglow;
 You tired, but snug and happy as a child?
Then 'twas "Turkey in the Straw" till your lips were nearly raw,
 And you hurled your bold defiance at the Wild.

Do you recollect the flashing, lashing pain;
 The gulf of humid blackness overhead;
The lightning making rapiers of the rain;
 The cattle-horns like candles of the dead
You sitting on your bronco there alone,
 In your slicker, saddle-sore and sick with cold?
Do you think the silent herd did not hear "The Mocking Bird",
 Or relish "Silver Threads among the Gold"?

Do you recollect the wild Magellan coast;
 The head-winds and the icy, roaring seas;
The nights you thought that everything was lost;
 The days you toiled in water to your knees;
The frozen ratlines shrieking in the gale;
 The hissing steeps and gulfs of livid foam:
When you cheered your messmates nine with "Ben Bolt" and "Clementine",
 And "Dixie Land" and "Seeing Nellie Home"?

Let the jammy banjo voice the Younger Son,
 Who waits for his remittance to arrive;
I represent the grimy, gritty one,
 Who sweats his bones to keep himself alive;
Who's up against the real thing from his birth;
 Whose heritage is hard and bitter toil;
I voice the weary, smeary ones of earth,
 The helots of the sea and of the soil.

I'm the Steinway of strange mischief and mischance;
 I'm the Stradivarius of blank defeat;
In the down-world, when the devil leads the dance,
 I am simply and symbolically meet;
I'm the irrepressive spirit of mankind;
 I'm the small boy playing knuckle down with Death;
At the end of all things known, where God's rubbish-heap is thrown,
 I shrill impudent triumph at a breath.

I'm a humble little bit of tin and horn;
 I'm a byword, I'm a plaything, I'm a jest;
The virtuoso looks on me with scorn;
 But there's times when I am better than the best.
Ask the stoker and the sailor of the sea;
 Ask the mucker and the hewer of the pine;
Ask the herder of the plain, ask the gleaner of the grain--
 There's a lowly, loving kingdom--and it's mine.

  At a roundup on the Gily,
    One sweet mornin' long ago,
  Ten of us was throwed right freely
    By a hawse from Idaho.
  And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'
    For a man to break his pride
  Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,
    Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--

    "_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_
    _I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_
      _I kin ride the highest liver_
      _'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_
    _And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"

  So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
    And they mangled up the air
  Till a native of Missouri
    Would have owned his brag was fair.
  Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
    And the wind it flapped his shirt,
  Loud above the hawse's squealin'
    We could hear our friend assert

    "_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._
    _Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_
      _If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_
      _W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_
    _And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"

  Then one caper of repulsion
    Broke that hawse's back in two.
  Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
    Skyward man and saddle flew.
  Up he mounted, never laggin',
    While we watched him through our tears,
  And his last thin bit of braggin'
      Came a-droppin' to our ears.

    "_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_
    _You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._
      _I have kep' my talent hidin';_
      _I'm too good for earthly ridin'_
    _And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"

  Years have gone since that ascension.
    Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
  So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
    Some celestial outlaw's bit.
  When the night rain beats our slickers
    And the wind is swift and stout
  And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
    We kin sometimes hear him shout--

    "_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_
    _I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._
      _Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_
      _While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._
    _If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"

  Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
    Scornful still of jar and jolt,
  He'll come back some day, astraddle
    Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
  And the thin-skinned generation
    Of that dim and distant day
  Sure will stare with admiration
    When they hear old Boastful say--

    "_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._
    _Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._
      _Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_
      _With your a'roplanes and motors--_
    _Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"

  We're the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men,
    But we had to come to town to get the mail.
  And we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then--
    All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.
  Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',
    All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
  For we found that city life is a constant round of strife
    And we ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray.

  Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the east turns pale with fear
    And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
  For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror
    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!

  We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
    From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.
  We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed
    And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.
  So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'
    'Twas't long till we had got where talkin' ends,
  And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,
    While my merry pardners entertained his friends.

  Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.
    Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.
  We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin'
    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town.

  Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
    Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,
  Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' crop of calves
    And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
  There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle
    And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange,
  And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds
    Still is useful in the language of the range.

  Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
    For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
  We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation--
    Ee--yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!

  Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast
    And my wild record closes.
  This maverick is down at last
    Just roped and tied with roses.
  And one small girl's to blame for it,
  Yet I don't fight with shame for it--
  Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,
    Just roped and tied with roses.

  I loped among the wildest band
    Of saddle-hatin' winners--
  Gay colts that never felt a brand
    And scarred old outlaw sinners.
  The wind was rein and guide to us;
  The world was pasture wide to us
  And our wild name was pride to us--
    High headed bronco sinners!

  So, loose and light we raced and fought
    And every range we tasted,
  But now, since I'm corralled and caught,
    I know them days were wasted.
  From now, the all-day gait for me,
  The trail that's hard but straight for me,
  For down that trail, who'll wait for me!
    Ay! them old days were wasted!

  But though I'm broke, I'll never be
    A saddle-marked old groaner,
  For never worthless bronc like me
    Got such a gentle owner.
  There could be colt days glad as mine
  Or outlaw runs as mad as mine
  Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine,
    But never such an owner.

  Lay on the iron, and lay it red!
    I'll take it kind and clever.
  Who wouldn't hold a prouder head
    To wear that mark forever?
  I'll never break and stray from her;
  I'd starve and die away from her.
  Lay on the iron--it's play from her--
    And brand me hers forever!