Bruce Kiskaddon

Bruce Kiskaddon (1878–1950) has been called the quintessential cowboy poet of the 20th century and is widely considered to be the cowboy poet laureate of America. His poems were widely published in calendars and books throughout his lifetime. In the mid-1980s, the birth of the cowboy poetry renaissance renewed interest in his work.

Bruce Harvey Kiskaddon was born in 1878 in Pennsylvania. He started his cowboy life in 1898 working in the Picket Wire district of Colorado. Kiskaddon worked for ten years as a cowboy. He frequently amused his fellow cowboys by writing parodies of songs and putting into rhyme the happenings around the ranch and on the trail.

At the outbreak of World War I, Kiskaddon joined the Army and served honorably in France with the cavalry. He remained overseas, spending time in the ranches of Australia as a jackaroo. When he returned to the United States, he found employment with Tap Duncan, a well-known and successful cattle rancher.

Kiskaddon entertained his fellow cowboys with his creative rewriting of popular songs. In 1922, with the encouragement of his employer, he wrote western poems about what life was really like in the west. With Duncan's encouragement, Kiskaddon began writing poetry that was both popular with cowboys and the general reading public. In 1924, he published his first book of poetry.

In 1926, Kiskaddon left the cowboy life behind for a career in films. He traveled to Hollywood to audition for a job as an extra in the movie Ben-Hur. He stayed in Hollywood the rest of his life, working as an extra and taking bit parts in Westerns. He supported himself mainly working as a bellhop in Hollywood hotels. He included several of his poems relating to hotel life in his book Just As Is published in 1928.

For years, Kiskaddon's poetry appeared in calendars from the Los Angeles Union Stock Yards. He continued to write and consolidate his poetry and reminisces of life on the range in the Western Livestock Journal. He published collections of his poetry in 1928, 1935, and 1947. The Los Angeles Union Stockyards continued to publish his poems and illustrations in calendars through 1959.

Bruce Kiskaddon died in 1950. Today, he is remembered and admired by Cowboy Poetry enthusiasts for his authenticity and skill at invoking life in the west as it once was.

"When They've Finished Shipping Cattle in the Fall"

Though you're not exactly blue, yet you don't feel like you do
In the winter, or the long hot summer days.
For your feelin's and the weather seem to sort of go together,
And you're quiet in the dreamy autumn haze.
When the last big steer is goaded down the chute, and safely loaded;
And the summer crew has ceased to hit the ball;
When a fellow starts to draggin' to the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shipping cattle in the fall.

Only two men left a standin' on the job for winter brandin',
And your pardner, he's a loafing by your side.
With a bran-new saddle creakin', but you never hear him speakin',
And you feel it's goin' to be a quiet ride.
But you savvy one another for you know him like a brother—
He is friendly but he's quiet, that is all; For he' thinkin' while he's draggin' to the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

And the saddle hosses stringin' at an easy walk a swingin'
In behind the old chuck wagon movin' slow.
They are weary gaunt and jaded with the mud and brush they've waded,
And they settled down to business long ago.
Not a hoss is feelin' sporty, not a hoss is actin' snorty;
In the spring the brutes was full of buck and bawl;
But they 're gentle, when they're draggin' to the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

And the cook leads the retreat perched high upon his wagon seat,
With his hat pulled 'way down furr'wd on his head.
Used to make that old team hustle, now he hardly moves a muscle,
And a feller might imagine he was dead,
'Cept his old cob pipe is smokin' as he lets his team go pokin',
Hittin' all the humps and hollers in the road.
No, the cook has not been drinkin'—he's just settin' there and thinkin'
'Bout the places and the people that he knowed
And you watch the dust a trailin' and two little clouds a sailin',
And a big mirage like lakes and timber tall.
And you're lonesome when you're draggin' to the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

When you make the camp that night, though the fire is burnin' bright,
Yet nobody seems to have a lot to say,
In the spring you sung and hollered, now you git your supper swallered
And you crawl into your blankets right away.
Then you watch the stars a shinin' up there in the soft blue linin'
And you sniff the frosty night air clear and cool.
You can hear the night hoss shiftin' as your memory starts driftin'
To the little village where you went to school.
With its narrow gravel streets and the kids you used to meet,
And the common where you used to play baseball.
Now you're far away and draggin' to the home ranch with the wagon
For they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.

And your school-boy sweetheart too, with her eyes of honest blue—
Best performer in the old home talent show.
You were nothin' but a kid but you liked her, sure you did—
Lord! And that was over thirty years ago.
Then your memory starts to roam from Old Mexico to Nome.
From the Rio Grande to the Powder River,
Of the things you seen and done—some of them was lots of fun
And a lot of other things they make you shiver.
'Bout that boy by name of Reid that was killed in a stampede—
'Twas away up north, you helped 'em dig his grave,
And your old friend Jim the boss that got tangled with a hoss,
And the fellers couldn't reach in time to save.

You was there when Ed got his'n—boy that killed him's still in prison,
And old Lucky George, he's rich and livin' high.
Poor old Tom, he come off worst, got his leg broke, died of thirst
Lord but that must be an awful way to die.

Then them winters at the ranches, and the old time country dances—
Everybody there was sociable and gay.
Used to lead 'em down the middle jest a prancin' to the fiddle—
Never thought of goin' home till the break of day.
No! there ain't no chance for sleepin', for the memories come a creepin',
And sometimes you think you hear the voices call;
When a feller starts a draggin' to the home ranch with the wagon—
When they've finished shippin' cattle in the fall.