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Rhoda Sivell was born in Ireland in 1874. She lived in Canada and published a collection of poems, Voices from the Range, in 1912. A bookseller's note states "The author was a rancher's wife in the Medicine Hat area, her father was a juror in the trial of Louis Riel." In Cowgirl Poetry (Gibbs Smith, 2001), edited by poet Virginia Bennett, some classic female poets were anthologized for the first time in a cowboy poetry collection, including Rhoda Sivell.  We thank Virginia Bennett and Gibbs-Smith for leading us to her, and we're pleased to include a selection of poems from Rhoda Sivell's Voices from the Range below.  See links to other publications and recordings that include her work, below. Below:   Poems Voices from the Range Links and more     illustration from Voices from the Range

Poems

Come with Me to the Old Range 
Come with me to the old range...

The Old Saskatchewan 
Down where the river is winding...

The Cow-Girl
Out on the wild range, riding...

Happy Days 
The bells in town are ringing... 

The Motherless Calf 
Only a day!  You poor little calf... 

The Broncho Buster 
He came up from old Mexico... 

Our Last Ride 
We drifted out West together... 

Voices from The Range 
There's an old ranch by the river... 

The Range Call
I'm lonely to-night for the old range...

They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night 
When you think you have forgotten...

The Old Saskatchewan 

Down where the river is winding
   Its deep and lonely way,
By coulee and cut-bank surrounding,
   The dark Saskatchewan lay.

And far below in the distance,
   Where the river flats look still,
And the smoke of an Indian teepee
   Rises up from a far-off hill

I hear the cry of the wild geese
   As they fly to their evening rest
Of the sand-bars of the river
   In the wild and the golden West.

And out by the far-off coulees,
   Where the evening shadows lie
In the depth of their lonely grandeur,
   I hear the lone wolf's cry.

And the coyotes call from the distant range,
   Out where the range stock roam,
And the cowboy whoops as he spurs his horse
   Down to the old ranch home.

Down by the Old Saskatchewan
   It's lonely, and wild, and free,
And the old rough range by the river-side
   Looks best in the world to me.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912
    

Come with Me to the Old Range 

Come with me to the old range
   Just for an hour or so;
You'll hear the call of the range stock
   And the voices of the Chinook blow.
Blowing down o'er the windswept hills
   Where the pups of the grey wolf play
And their dens lie deep in the hidden steep
   Of the cut-banks far away.

You'll hear the song of the bluebird
   As she swings on the willow tree,
And the note of the wild dove cooing;
   See the range that looks good to me;
Hear the wild young range horse neighing,
   The music of unshod feet,
And the sun o'er the range hills setting--
   The things that make life complete.

You will smell the wild clematis,
   As it falls in a cloud of white,
Sending its glorious fragrance
   Far out into the prairie night;
See the moon shining over the river,
   Hear the call of the coyote shrill,
And the long, deep bay of the lone wolf
   Coming down from a far-off hill.

You will see Dick the broncho buster,
   The rider who doesn't blow;
You will hear of the cold, hard winter,
   The crust on the frozen snow;
Of the outlaw hunted by redcoats
   When he hid in the old range hills;
Of the mist that hangs over the river;
   Of the soft rain that never chills.

Then come with me to the old range
   Just for an hour or so;
I'll show the sweetest things on earth
   Out where the Chinooks blow

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912.

 

 

The Cow-Girl

Out on the wild range, riding
     To the music of drifting feet;
As we lope o’er the sunburned prairie,
     I and the cow-girl meet.

The sun in the West is setting.
     And shoots out its golden beams;
One falls on the face of the rider,
     The cow-girl of my dreams

She’s as lithe as the supple willows
     That grow by the bed of the streams;
Her hair like the golden sunbeam
     That falls on the girl of my dreams.

Her eyes are as dark as the shadows
    That creep down the canyon wide;
With a look like a half-broke broncho,
    Half fearful, yet trusting beside.

Her face like the roses in summer
    That grow in the coulees deep;
Her lips like the scarlet sand-flower
     That blossoms in cut-banks steep.

She’s as fair as a summer morning;
     As pure as the prairie air;
She’s as wild as the silver sage brush
     That grows by the grey wolf’s lair.

The sky in the West has darkened
     As home to the camp we ride,
As I lope o’er the shadowed prairie
     With the cow-girl by my side.

We laugh and we talk together,
      To the music of drifting feet.
As we lope o’er the sunburned prairie,
      Where I and the cow-girl meet.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912

The Motherless Calf 

Only a day! You poor little calf,
   With the brown and glossy head!
Only a day on the old rough ranch,
   And your dear old mother dead.

We put you up close beside her,
   And though she was weak and sick,
She lifted her head to her little one,
   And gave you a loving lick.

We put you away in the old cow's stall;
   And we made you warm and dry;
We gave you milk of the best to drink,
   But we could not stop your cry.

The little motherless heifer,
   Out in the old rough shed,
Is the pick of the bunch with my pard and I
   Because her mother is dead.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912

 

 

The Broncho Buster

He came up from old Mexico.
   I couldn't rightly say
What was his nationality,
   But I'll tell the tale this way:
I think he was half Spaniard;
   And he spoke the language swell;
Black was his hair and curly,
   And black were his eyes as well.

His face was tanned by Southern suns;
   His features fine and neat;
His build was strong and supple--
   You bet he looked a treat!
But what's a man to look at
   If he's only there for show?
A man must do a few things well,
   And then he must not blow.

And Dick could handle horses well,
   He hadn't any fear;
And that's the only kind of  man
   A range horse will let near.
For I've seen them strike at others,
   Because they were afraid.
A horse can size a man up fast,
   And show you how he's made.

I've seen Dick throw and tie them down,
   And cinch the saddle tight
In three short minutes -- all the time
   The horse was on the fight --
And then he'd slip the rope off,
   The horse was free to go;
But Dick was in the saddle --
   With the horse a-rearing so.

And he'd ride him to the finish,
   Though he'd buck, and twist, and squeal,
And plunge around in circles,
   Just enough to make you reel.
But Dick was in the saddle,
   And he sure was there to stay,
And you'd hear him laughing all the time
   In a wild and reckless way.

I've seen him busting three or four,
   Inside two hours or so --
Range horses that had never had
   A saddle on, I know.
And never have I seen him piled.
   I'd hate to see the day,
That Dick lay piled upon the ground,
   And let his horse away.

For I've got a great respect for Dick,
   Just like the horses hard.
It only takes a coward round
   To make a horse real bad.
They've got to show their feelings;
   It's only right and true,
That a horse won't have a coward round
   To show him what to do.

And he was gentle with them'
   They'd get to like him so,
They'd follow him around
   The old corrals, you know.
He'd talk so softly to them,
   And look down into their eyes;
Call them his own honies,
   And they didn't seem surprised.

We'll take our hats off to him, boys,
   For he's the only kind
Range horses have respect for --
   Just surely bound to mind.
That kind is gentle with them;
   And they keep their temper so;
They haven't got a bit of fear,
   And you never hear them blow.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912

illustration from Voices from the Range

 

Our Last Ride 

We drifted out West together,
   In the light of the dying day;
The town faded far behind us,
   Bath'd in its gas-light ray.
The smell of the rain-swept prairie
   Blew up to us strong and sweet,
And all the music we needed
   Was the ring of the unshod feet.

We thought of the days that were over,
   We thought of the days that would be,
We thought of the present in silence,
   When you said good-bye to me.
I see you face in the shadows,
   Just as I did that night,
Though it's years since we drifted together
   Out in that fading light.

The smell of the silver sage brush,
   The moan of the Western wind
As it blew around our faces,
   It all comes back to my mind.
We said good-bye and we parted--
   And your trail new-cut and strange--
Drifting apart to meet no more--
   Our last old ride on the range.

Yet I never see a sunset,
   But that ride comes back to me.
In the wave of the silver sage brush
   Once more your face I see.
The South wind calls me to you,
   So warm, and strong, and sweet,
And your voice is till with me, tender and true,
   In the music of unshod feet.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912

 

Voices from The Range 

There's an old ranch by the river,
   Out far across the plain,
Where no city dust blows o'er it,
   By cut-banks washed by rain;
By the big bend of the river,
   Where the soft winds whisper low,
And the doves coo in the poplar trees,
   And the wild clematis grow.

The meadow larks they sing at dawn,
   As the river ripples by,
And out beyond the cut-banks
   You can hear the range stock cry;
And the neighing of the horses;
   Oh, it all sounds sweet to me,
On the old ranch by the river,
   Oh, it's there that I would be.

Then the wolf hunts o'er the prairie;
   And when all the boys drift in,
We all play cards together --
   In town you would call it sin --
Where the stranger is always welcome,
   It's there that I would be,
On the old ranch by the river,
   Where life is sweet and free.

You can have your city life for me;
   And your noisy, dusty town,
Where the gas lights shine all through the day,
   And the men they don't tan brown.
But it's hustle, hustle, hustle,
   And no one there seems free.
But the old range voices call me back,
   It's there that I would be.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912

 

illustration from Voices from the Range

 

The Range Call

I'm lonely to-night for the old range,
   And the voices I loved to hear;
Though the band in the town is playing,
   The music comes soft to my ear.
There's only the river between us,
   The town in the flat shows bright,
But I'm lonely, lonely, lonely,
   For my old range home to-night.

I'm lonely to-night for the old friends;
   For new friends can never be
Just what those dear old range friends
   Have been in the past to me.
But I hear their voices calling,
   And the band has ceased to play,
And my heart has gone out from the gas-lit town
  To the wild range far away.

If you ever the range call,
   The voice that speaks soft and sweet;
That wins you back to the prairie,
   Away from the gas-lit street;
If once you hear her calling,
   You sure than have got to go,
For the old range is waiting for you,
   And you've got to love her so.

Reprinted from Cowgirl Poetry with permission from Gibbs Smith, Publisher.  See our feature on that book here.

illustration from Voices from the Range

 

They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night 

     When you think you have forgotten,
       And have lived the feelings down,
And have shoved that best that's in you out of sight;
     You don't trouble in the daytime,
        When you're busy up in town,
But they keep a-stealing on you in the night.

     They keep a-stealing on you
       When the world has gone to rest,
And bring the past before you bright as day'
     You can hear the horses neighing,
       You can hear the riders whoop,
In the valley by the river far away.

     You don't see them in the daytime,
       In the city's noise and din'
But when Night hands her curtain from the sky
     They keep a-stealing on you,
       Those dear, familiar scenes,
And you know you'll not forget them till you die.

     And your top-horse is standing
       With his saddle by the door,
And he whinnies when you're coming into sight;
     'Tis years since last you saw him,
       You don't think of him in town,
But he keeps a-stealing on you in the night.

     And your honey, she is riding
       By the river all alone,
And some way it doesn't seem quite right;
     For you're hustling, hustling, hustling,
       Making money up in town,
But your baby's face it breaks your heart at night.

When you think you have forgotten,
     And have lived the feelings down,
       And have shoved the best that's in you out of sight,
Just get a horse and saddle,
     And drift out from the town,
       To the the thoughts that steal upon you in the night.

by Rhoda Sivell, from Voices from the Range, 1912

Voices from the Range

 

  

Voices from the Range, by Rhoda Sivell 

Copyright, Canada, 1912 by Rhoda Sivell

Contents:

Come with Me to the Old Range 
The Old Saskatchewan 
The Wolf Hunter
The Chinook
My Prairie Flower
Little Joe
Happy Days 
The Outlaw
Turned Loose
The Motherless Calf 
The Broncho Buster 
Honey
The Hunter's Bride
Listen to the Coyotes
The Wood by the Saskatchewan
The Range Call
Our Last Ride 
Alberta's Answer to "The Law of the Yukon"
Canada, Her Firstborn
Come to Me at Sunset
Nature's Prayer
The Rider that Never "Made Good"
The Cow-Girl
They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night
Only a Kiss
My Lost Love
You're Far Away
Good-Bye
Alone
Voices from The Range 
The Hard Winter
The Wolf-Dog
The Rider's Paradise
Calgary, "Queen of the West"

 

A bookseller's note describes a 1960 edition, "...probably self published, Medicine Hat, Alberta, c.1960, 88 pages, with one
photo and 2 C. M. Russell illustrations ... This is the last of 4 variant issues, the first was 1911. The author was a rancher's wife in the Medicine Hat area, her father was a juror in the trial of Louis Riel."

 

Links and more

 

Rhoda Sivell's work was anthologized for the first time in a cowboy poetry collection in Cowgirl Poetry (Gibbs Smith, 2001), edited by poet Virginia Bennett. Cowgirl Poetry includes Rhoda Sivell's "Our Last Ride," "The Range Call," and "They Keep a-Stealing on You in the Night." See our feature on this book here.

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Cowboy Poetry: The Reunion (Gibbs Smith, 2004), also edited by Virginia Bennett, includes Rhoda Sivell's "The Rider that Never Made Good."  See our feature on this book here.

---

Cowboy Poetry Classics, a recording compiled, produced, and annotated by David Stanley, (Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, 2003) includes "Our Last Ride" recited by Echo Roy, and
"They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night" recited by Doris Daley.

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  Rhoda Sivell's The Cow-Girl is included in The Big Roundup, an anthology of classic and contemporary poetry from CowboyPoetry.com (New West Library, 2001).

 

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We welcome additional information about Rhoda Sivell.  Email us

 

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