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The Boundary Rider’s Sunday

Edward S. Sorenson

It’s Sunday—that’s sure (blessed day of rest!)
    By the pebbles in “This Week’s” tin;
By the fences I’ve ridden, north, east an’ west,
    An’ the dampers that I’ve done in.

So I’ll wash an’ iron an’ patch my togs,
    And make me a big plum-duff;
An’ while it’s bilin’ I’ll fetch some logs,
    An’ my saddle I’ll mend an’ stuff.

There’s the tent to fix where the rain comes through,
    And the bulge where it heaves and flaps.
Must have a shave an’ a clean-up, too,
    An’ plait me some hobble-straps.

There’s a pair o’ boots to half-sole an’ heel’
    A duck to be cleaned an’ pluckt;
A damper to make an’ the spuds to peel,
    An’ my bunk I must reconstruct.

Then I want a crown in my old straw hat,
    An’ a back in my strawb’ry vest—
Ah, well, I’ve plenty of time for that,
    For Sunday’s my day of rest.

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