Printer's Last Gatherin'

The pines were tall and brisk, the oak and aspen in fall glory,
The air was heavy and crisp as we rode up the canyon enjoying nature - 
all but in a hurry.

As we spotted a jag we stopped to get a count. His eyes and ears 
forward as a bull and heifer began to mount.
They paused and looked as if a silent code they agreed, 
turned down the canyon in a single trail as we rode.

Then he stopped, turned his head and whipped his tail - 
there was another band coming down, bustin' grass, and carryin' the mail.
As we waited 'til they grouped, some boggerd and hit the brush. 

He muscled to me "It's time to work" so I grabbed my rope and built a loop, 
as we hit the brush they broke by the third swing of my rope.
As they regrouped and started to trail through the quakies and across the creek, 
I began to feel pale; for we both knew this was his last trip down this old trail. 

It pained me to put up a friend that would never fail.
So quick and sharp as cowy as if he wore the hide himself.  
I hated the thought that work and age had taken away his health.  

We made it to the pens and shut 'em up tight.  I got down and rubbed his neck,  
he looked at me with eyes that said "Don't worry friend, it's alright."
Hundreds of miles, trials and trails, he did his best at the game and 
now there's only age to blame.

No doubt he'll be gatherin' God's herd in the sky.  
So long trusted friend, good luck, good cattle, and goodbye.