by Arthur Chapman
Men in the rough--on the trails all new-broken--
Those are the friends we remember with tears;
Few are the words that such comrades have spoken--
Deeds are their tributes that last through the years.
Men in the rough--sons of prairie and mountain--
Children of nature, warm-hearted, clear eyed;
Friendship with them is a never-sealed fountain;
Strangers are they to the altars of pride.
Men in the rough--curt of speech to their fellows--
Ready in everything, save to deceive;
Theirs are the friendships that time only mellows,
And death cannot sever the bonds that they weave.
Last updated February 11, 2018