by Kristen Semb
(Whitehall, WI, U.S.A.)
A wild horse running free!
Her pounding hooves barely touched the ground,
If she escapes, she'll never be found.
The men's ropes are twirling, now flying throuth the air,
Waiting to tighten 'round the neck of the mare.
She sees it and cuts to the right,
While the riders draw empty ropes back up tight.
The men's horses are tiring, but she's fresh as a breeze.
"She's drawing away," whispers the wind in the trees.
Through the canyon, up the hill,
"The men are beaten; she's safe"; the cardinals thrill!
She'll never know bridle, blanket, nor saddle,
And she won't ever help cowboys round up the cattle.
'Cause she's a wild one by name and by mark,
The cowboys all round here call her The Wild Heart.
Now that's the tale of the sorrel mare that never got roped,
Because she evaded all the cowboys with her powerful 'lope.