The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The Riders of the PlainsAnonymous
W
The ever-welcome sound,
‘Ring out the boot and saddle’ till
Its stirring notes resound.
Our horses toss their bridled heads
And chafe against the reins;
Ring out, ring out the marching call
Of the Riders of the Plains.
Our trackless path must be,
And round it roam the fiercest tribes
Of Blackfoot and of Cree;
But danger from their savage bands
Our dauntless heart disdains,
That heart which bears the helmet up
Of the Riders of the Plains.
But onward still we go;
We scale the rugged mountain range,
Descend the valleys low;
We face the dread Saskatchewan,
Brimmed high with heavy rains;
With all his might he cannot check
The Riders of the Plains.
In all this great lone land,
Which stretches o’er the continent
To where the Rockies stand;
But not one heart doth falter,
No coward voice complains,
That few, too few, in numbers are
The Riders of the Plains.
Of Britain’s freedom here,
Restrain the lawless savage, and
Protect the pioneer;
And ’tis a proud and daring trust
To hold these vast domains,
With but three hundred mounted men,
The Riders of the Plains.
The soldier’s care and pride;
No waving flag leads onward
Our horsemen when they ride;
The sense of duty well discharged
All idle thought sustains,
No other spur to action need
The Riders of the Plains.