When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,
To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,
Will I find the trail blazed all the way,
A place to camp, at the close of day?
Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?
(For no one has ever come back from there)
But the good book says, if we shoot square,
"Have no fear of the trails over there!"
An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,
O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,
Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,
And all will be one pleasant dream.
No herding of dogies on frost night,
Or wild stampede in the morning's light.
No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.
No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.
But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,
Over a range ever free from snow;
And for those who lived as He who died
To save us riders—that Great Divide
Will be only a foothill, so very low;
That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,
And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,
With a place to camp at the close of day.
When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,
Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"
And the gate will open for me, I know,
Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"
