The Riders of the Purple Sage

he Riders of the Purple Sage They’re running through the canyons out across the western plains They’re running under a cloudy sky and through a mountain rain Their nostrils breathing fire as lightning streaks the sky They’re the devil's band of broncos, they run cause they can’t die The cowboys ride on ghostly steeds with eyes red like coals They’ve run the devil’s band for years, but they’re not getting old They have no place to come from and have no place to go They’re the “Riders of the Purple Sage,” down in Mexico They can’t stop for water and they can’t stop for food They keep those horses moving for if they stop, they lose A demon is the wrangler and for the devil, they ride Pushing broncos of torment across the western skies They ride when the night is dark and the thunder starts to roll They ride across a haunted sky when the winds are growing cold They ride for eternity on a trail of shame and tears Never reach their destination , they’ve been on the run for years Now, if you rustle horses, you better mend your ways A bronco stands at the hanging tree and a rustler’s wage is paid There’s alway a bronc to wrangle, and always a range to ride Riding the Range of the Purple Sage across the western sky There’s been many a story told of all the dust and sweat cowboys trying to catch them broncs, but they aint caught um yet They have to ride forever as men without an age Riding the trail of rustlers, as Riders of the Purple Sage.