The Ballad of Richard Realf

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD REALF, 

              by Richard Barttelot

 

California – here he comes

  Into your furthest city;

San Francisco – sound your drums

  And sing the hills for pity.

 He’s crossed the plains of Idaho,

  The deserts of Nebraska,

From warm, sun-lazy Mexico

  To frozen, bleak Alaska.

 

Oklahoma – there he goes

  With his unfinished story;

Bison herds and buffaloes

  Stampede him on to glory.

By dried-up creek and dust-track

  He roams through far Montana,

Ranging the sagebrush outback

  Over the broad savannah.

 

Mississippi – there he rides

  On his unending journey,

With leopard skins and lion hides

  Ready for tryst or tourney.

The wealth of Colorado’s mines

  His saddle-bag discloses,

Grapes from West Virginian vines,

  And Pasadena’s roses.

 

Arizona – there he lies

  Upon the midnight boulder;

The colours of the rainbow skies

  Have tanned his tattooed shoulder.

And echoes of his stanzas

  Are blown across the sky – oh

From the prairies of Kansas

  And the canyons of Ohio.

 

 Carolina – there he is

  On the unwinding trail,

Fondling a pretty miss

  Or quaffing Texan ale.

The bedrock is his bolster,

  His diet cloves and honey;

His gun is in its holster,

  His wallet full of money.

 

Beyond the wide horizon

  The skies were always blue,

And RICHARD REALF is riding on

  Though he is lost from view.

He sought the shining morning star

  Above the southern fountain;

He found the peace of Shangri-La

  Upon the golden mountain.

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