323 
As I was hiking past the woods, the cool and sleepy summer woods, 
I saw a guy a-talking to the sunshine in the air; 
Thinks I, he’s going to have a fit -- I’ll stick around and watch a bit; 
But he paid no attention, hardly knowing I was there. 

He must have been a college guy, for he was talking big and high, -- 
The trees were standing all around as silent as a church -- 
A little closer I saw he was manufacturing poetry, 
Just like a Mocker sitting on a pussy-willow perch. 

I squatted down and rolled a smoke and listened to each word he spoke; 
He never stumbled, reared or broke; he never missed a word, 
And though he was a Bo like me, he’d been a gent once, I could see; 
I ain’t much strong on poetry, but this is what I heard: 

219 
“We’ll dance a merry saraband from here to drowsy Samarcand. 
Along the sea, across the land, the birds are flying South, 
267, 297 
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me, 
341 
With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth. 

220 
“The mountains are all hid in mist; the valley is like amethyst; 
The poplar leaves they turn and twist; oh, silver, silver green! 
Out there somewhere along the sea a ship is waiting patiently, 
While up the beach the bubbles slip with white afloat between. 

259
“The tide-hounds race far up the shore -- the hunt is on! The breakers roar, 
(Her spars are tipped with gold and o’er her deck the spray is flung); 
The buoys that rollic in the bay, they nod the way, they nod the way! 
The hunt is up! I am the prey! The hunter’s bow is strung!” 

297 
“Out there somewhere, --” says I to me. “By Gosh! I guess that’s poetry! 
Out there somewhere - Penelope - with kisses on her mouth!” 
And then, thinks I, “O college guy, your talk it gets me in the eye, 
The North is creeping in the air; the birds are flying South.” 

266 And yet, the sun was shining down, a-blazing on the little town, 
A mile or so ‘way down the track a-dancing in the sun. 
But somehow, as I waited there, there came a shiver in the air; 
“The birds are flying South,” he says. “The winter has begun.” 

252
Says I, “Then let’s be on the float; you certainly have got my goat; 
You make me hungry in my throat for seeing things that’s new. 
Out ere somewhere we’ll ride the range a-looking for the new and strange; 
My feet are tired and need a change. Come on! It’s up to you! 

316 
“There ain’t no sweet Penelope somewhere that’s longing much for me, 
But I can smell the blundering sea and hear the rigging hum; 
And I can hear the whispering lips that fly before the outbound ships;
And I can hear the breakers on the sand a-booming ‘Come!’” 

322 
And then that slim, poetic guy, turned and looked me in the eye: 
“...It’s overland and overland and overseas to -- where?” 
“Most anywhere that isn’t here. " I says. His face went kind of queer: 
The place we're in is always here. The other place is there." 

He smiled, though, as my eye caught his. “Then what a lot of there there is 
To go and see and go and see and go and see some more.” 
He did a fancy step or two. Says he, “I think I’ll go with you --” 
... Two moons, and we were baking in the straits at Singapore. 

223 Around the world and back again; we saw it all. The mist and rain 
In England and the dry old plain from Needles to Berdoo. 
We kept a-rambling all the time. I rustled grub, he rustled rhyme -- 
Blind baggage, hoof it, ride or climb -- we always put it through. 

414 Just for a con I’d like to know (yes, he crossed over long ago; 
And he was right, believe me, Bo!) if somewhere in the South, 
Down where the clouds lie on the sea, he found his sweet Penelope, 
With buds of roses in her hair and kisses on her mouth. 

The waves come walkin' up the sand; 
"Weep! Weep! and "Hush!" along the shore, 
Fretting' and teasin' at the land, 
And rollin' up the smooth brown floor, 
Frettin' and sayin' things galore. 

One night in June I left the ties 
And made a fire to boil some tea 
Down on the beach; a paradise, 
With nothin' round to bother me 
Except the talkin' of the sea. 

The stars were blinkin' big and still; 
The drift-wood fire was snappin' bright; 
The moon, back of me on the hill, 
Was flirtin' with the summer night, 
Just a-pertendin' to make light. 

I had the makings and I smoked 
and wondered over different things, 
Thinkin' as how this old world joked 
In callin' only some men kings 
While I sat there a-blowin' rings. 

Me? I was king of anywhere, 
Peggin' away at nothing, hard. 
Havin' no pet, paric'lar care; 
Havin' no trouble, or no pard; 
"Just me," filled up my callin' card. 

The waves come walkin' up the sand; 
"Weep! Weep! and "Hush!" along the shore; 
Fumin' and frettin' at the land, 
And rollin' something up the floor; 
Frettin' and sayin' things galore. 

Something -- The moon was growin' bright 
And cold and high and big and round -- 
Something that floated limp and white; 
Something I wish'd I hadn't found, 
A woman in the moonlight, drowned!

And then I saw that she was young; 
Was pretty-dressed and not long dead. 
Her hair was black and thick and hung 
Just like a cloth wound round her head. 
"Weep! Weep!" and "Hush!" the ocean said. 

No storm had lately been that June; 
There was no sign of wreck of boat, 
But shinin' in the rising moon 
I saw a locket on her throat, 
And in the locket was a note. 

The note I read close to the flame; 
--The fire with some fresh wood I fed -- 
Just one word, and below, a name; 
-- Close to the fire a-dancin' red -- 
One word, "Good-bye" the locket said. 

I thought I knew her story then, 
For she was pretty-like and sweet; 
"Good-bye" I stooped and read again, 
I crossed her hands and made her neat; 
Then shakin' I got on my feet. 

I might 'a' left her there for such 
As come and stare to see next day; 
But thinks I, I can do this much; 
I'll hide her from what folks will say, 
Guessin' at why she went away. 

I buried her there in the sand. 
"Good-bye" I said for her once more. 
I left the locket in her hand; 
The waves were sayin' things galore; 
"Weep! Weep!" and "Hush!" along the shore. 

---Henry Herbert Knibbs 
 

Henry Herbert Knibbs was a scholar who aspired to be a Western writer and poet. There is no doubt that he put more research and thought into his writing than either Kiskaddon or Barker. He was not born into ranch life, but became a western writer through his great efforts. As a result he left a legacy of profound cowboy poetry for our pleasure. 

Now in paperback, COWBOY LOVE POETRY, a rare anthology of more than seventy love poems, is written by America's real hero, the cowboy. Read the tender words of classic Western balladeers such as Henry Herbert Knibbs, Frank Desprez, S. Omar Barker, Badger Clark, Belle Starr, Waddie Mitchell, Bruce Kiskaddon, Henry Real Bird, J.B. Allen, Laurie Wagner Buyer and many more.

A staple at venues from the Gene Autry Western Heritage Museum to Rizzoli Book Stores, this handsome volume has become an American folk collectible, the only cowboy poetry anthology devoted entirely to romance on the range.