GARY "OLD BUCKAROO" LUNDBLAD

 

 

The Greatness of the Blacksmiths

I was walking through my western hometown
    just the other day.
When I passed by the Blacksmith's Shop;
    there was iron in my way.
He was workin' on some wagon wheels,
    one of them was mine.
I told him don't be in a hurry, you can
    take your time.

He pushed down on the bellow to make
    the fire hot.
Each time he used his hammer he would
    always hit his spot.
For he had been a Blacksmith for nearly
    twenty years.
He could fix most anything, even iron
    racks to mount my deer's.

The Blacksmith had made iron rails to
    go around my home.
And he had made me some wagon wheels
    just like Old Dan Tuckers comb.
He made the cast for the Bell that hangs
    up at the schoolhouse,
But the Bell that hangs up at the Church
    is mostly quite as a mouse.

When a Cowboy lives out on the Ranch
    one friend must be the Blacksmith.
Another should be a Veterinarian and of course
    the local Sheriff.
One time when I was goin' ridin' I needed
    something to cook with.
The Blacksmith made me a cookin' skillet
    with a handle straight and stiff.

So you see I'm very grateful to the Old West
    occupation
Of mendin' wheels and replacin' horseshoes
    and fixin' anything made of iron that
    you can mention.
So Thank You, all, you Blacksmiths, for doin'
    what you do,
And make sure you pass down all of your skills
    to someone just like you.

© 1996, Gary "Old Buckaroo" Lundblad
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Memories of the Chisholm Trail 

I remember, it was years ago, I rode the Chisholm  
    Trail.
If you'll just have some patience, friend, I'll tell you of my tale.
As we headed those cattle to Kansas to put them on
    the rail,
I remember, it was years ago, I rode the Chisholm
    Trail.

I remember goin' to the chuckwagon to get a
    bite to eat
And to warm my hands by the fire as on my face
    I felt that heat.
It was by that fire other Cowboys I did chance to
    meet.
With coffee in our cups all us Cowboys around
    the fire took a seat.

We told our stories of growin' up on ranches
    near the tumbleweed.
And none of us got too much schoolin' 'cause we
    had to help plant the seed.
We learned to throw the lasso and to rope our
    very first calf
But that was just the beginning. Let me tell you
    that's not even the half.

Each time we went out on the trail we always had
    two crews;
One for the day and one for the night and we all
    listened for the sound of the moos.
As the day crew came in, a couple at a time, straight
    to the chuckwagon they would align.
I was on the night crew so when they came in I knew
    that it was my time.

So, I got on my horse and out to the cattle did ride.
To make sure rustlers didn't take any cattle, a gun I
    wore at my side.
The last thing we needed was a stampede in the middle
    of the night,
So we all watched very carefully until the coming of
    the daylight.

When we got all the cattle to market and the boss gave
    us our pay
We just all stayed in town and had ourselves a few
    fantastic kind of days.
Most spent all their money 'cept a dollar here and
    there.
I spent only half of mine, for I was saving to buy me
    some mares.

After working for someone else for nigh on
    twenty years
I bought myself a herd of cattle. It was nearly two-   
    hundred steers.
And I bought myself some really good ranch land,
And I hired myself some good 'ol boys and they
    are all real good ranch hands.

But now I'm turning Seventy early in the Spring
My sons will be takin' over so I'll spend time on
    the porch and I'll sing
All the cowboy songs I've learned and I'll recite a
    poem or two.
And don't think of putting me out to pasture, please,
    'cause for me it's way too soon.

And when I die, at my funeral I want Cowboy poems
    and songs.
I want a whole lot of poems read and the songs; every-
    body please sing along-
"Cause I'll be ridin' green pastures in Heaven, way
    up in the sky.
So no one has any reason to feel sorry for me and
    no one has a reason to cry.

© 1996, Gary "Old Buckaroo" Lundblad
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

The Cowpokes

He can ride horses, he can rope. He's a Cowpoke.
He can mend fences, he can brand. He's a Cowpoke.
He can round up wild horses and round up the steer.
He's so proud of himself when he looks in the mirror;
He's been a rookie and he's been a pro. He's a Cowpoke.

He can ride bareback, and he can ride bulls. He's a Cowpoke.
He can steer wrestle and ride saddle broncos. He's a Cowpoke.
He can ride them for eight, and he can throw them around five
And when he's havin' a good night the crowd comes alive.
I'm talkin' about seconds when I say eight and five. He's a Cowpoke.

He was the best Cowboy around for three years in a row; this Cowpoke.
Then he had some bad luck for a couple of years; this Cowpoke.
Then all of his luck it turned good once again 
He won that year's all-around he was on the top again.
He won most money, a saddle, a rodeo belt buckle; this Cowpoke.

Now he's back on the ranch mendin' fences again; this Cowpoke.
And he watches his son as he wins rodeos; this Cowpoke.
And his grandson was in the 'lil britches rodeo,
And now he's in the High School Rodeo and that's were Grandpa loves to go.
Three generations of the Cowboy Way for these Cowpokes.


© 1998, Gary "Old Buckaroo" Lundblad
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Just As Long 

Just as long as the Coyotes are howling
At the moon way up in the sky
Just as long as a fence needs mending
And cattle bellow out their late night lullaby
Just as long as there's a campfire
Burning somewhere out on the range
Just as long as cattle need branding
To me the Cowboy life will never be strange

Just as long as my Horse needs shoeing
So he won't get hurt while we ride
Just as long as I keep on singing
Out on those long cattle drives
Just as long as the cook keeps on cooking
For all the cowboys on each cattle drive
Just as long as I keep sleeping under the stars
To me the Cowboy life will always be alive

Just as long as Cowboys ride Broncos
Just as long as Cowboys ride Bulls
Just as long as Cowboys ride Bareback
To me the Cowboy life will be my life
Just as long as Cowboys are Team Roping
Just as long as Cowboys are Bulldogging
Just as long as Cowboys are Calf Roping
To me the Cowboy life will always be my life

© 2002, Gary "Old Buckaroo" Lundblad
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Who's Gonna Get Your Leggins          

There was a little Granddaughter and her Grandpa
        "Old Buckaroo."
They where walking around the ranch with a few things
        they must do.
The Granddaughter turned to her Grandpa she had something
        she had say
And when her Grandpa "Old Buckaroo" heard it at first he had
        nothing to say.

For she said, "Grandpa who's gonna wear your leggins, who's
       gonna wear your cowboy hat?
Who's gonna get your cowboy boots and who's gonna sit on
       your horse were you sat?
Who's gonna use your lasso and ride for the brand like you
       always do?
Grandpa who's gonna wear your leggins when it's me here
       without you"?

You see I heard some family members talking about puttin'
       your leggins on the wall.
But Grandpa "Old Buckaroo" your leggins don't belong on
       the wall at all.
I know I'm just a little buckarette but I want to wear your
       leggins when you go
Up to your ranch up in the sky you'll be riding day and night
       were there's never any snow

Then this old rugged Grandpa "Old Buckaroo" picked his
       Granddaughter up into his arms.
And he said to his little buckarette, That he loved her because
       of all her lovely little charms.
And he told her she won't have to worry 'cause his leggins
       will be hers there will be no mistake.
And his little buckarette wore his leggins when they buried
       her Grandpa "Old Buckaroo" on there ranch down beside
       there lake.

For she said, "Grandpa who's gonna wear your leggins, who's
       gonna wear your cowboy hat?
Who's gonna get your cowboy boots and who's gonna sit on
       your horse were you sat?
Who's gonna use your lasso and ride for the brand like you
       always do?
Grandpa who's gonna wear your leggins when it's me here
       without you"?

Grandpa "Old Buckaroo" I got to wear your leggins like you
    said that I could do.

 

 

Read Gary "Old Buckaroo" Lundblad's A Corpus Christi Cowboy Christmas posted with other Holiday 2001 poems