Anonymous

WE wake the prairie echoes with

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.

Full many a league o’er prairie wild

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.

The thunderstorm sweeps o’er our way,

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.

We muster but three hundred

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.

Our mission is to plant the rule

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.

We bear no lifted banner,

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.

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