Choral score

$1.50 per copy (you are buying a digital license)


There she goes a-lopin’, stranger,
Khaki-gowned, with flyin’ hair,
Talk about your classy ridin’,—
Well, you’re gettin’ it right there.

Jest a kid, but lemme tell you
When she warms a saddle seat
On that outlaw bronc a-straddle
She’s the one that can’t be beat!

Every buckaroo that sees her
Tearin’ cross the range astride
Has some mighty jealous feelin’s
Wishin’ he knowed how to ride.

Proud o’ her? Say, lemme tell you,
She’s the queen of all the range;
Got a grip upon our heart-strings
Mighty strong, but that ain’t strange;

‘Cause she loves the lowin’ cattle,
And she loves the hills and open air,
Dusty trails on blossomed canons
God has strung around out here.

You kin bet I know that ridin’,—
Now she’s toppin’ yonder swell.
Thar she is; that’s her a-smilin’
At the bars of the corral.

- Anonymous