Who's that mysterious rider,Full-sized, yet far away,Seen by the Western-sider--A spectre of the day?On ridge or seeming high lineWhere East the plain expands,The horseman on the skylineIs known in many lands.
With summer insects drummingAnd summer skies aglow,He's there--none saw him coming--He's gone--none saw him go.Too plain for superstition,Too blurred for one we sought,He rides across our visionTo vanish like a thought.
He never halts nor hurries,But slowly, in broad day,Along the skyline eastwardHe seems to pick his way.He rides against the sunrise,He rides against the gloom,Where suddenly, in summer,The lurid storm-clouds loom.
He never rides in starlight,Nor underneath the moon,But often in the distantAnd dazzling haze of noon.The sad Australian sunset(Too sad for pen or tongue)Has often seen him ridingOut where the night was young.
Our rolling cattle ranches,In "country" far away,Where cowboys took their chances,They saw him every day.And many try to find himWhere riders never tire--He leaves no trail behind himAnd never lights a fire.
On run and ranch and veldtlandHe leaves them all in doubt--A cowboy, or a stockman,A horse thief, or a scout.The glass brings him no nearer,Nor hints the way he came;His features are no clearer,He vanishes the same.
Too blurred and dark his clothingTo hint of his degree;Inquiries lead to nothing,No hoof-marks do we see.He leaves the watcher puzzled,Or leaves the watcher pained:The horseman on the skylineHas never been explained.
Still, where by foot or saddle,Or train or motor car,The people hurry westward--It matters not how far--And, plainly seen by many,The greatest and the least--The rider on the skylineIs scouting to the east.