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Poem	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!
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