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.
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