Featured at the Bar-D Ranch


photo by Walter Workman

About Doris Daley
Poems and Lyrics
Books and Recordings
Contact Information

Western Music Association (WMA)
Top Female Poet

Academy of Western Artists' (AWA)
Top Female Poet

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   About Doris Daley:

Doris Daley grew up leaning into the Chinook winds of Southern Alberta. Her great grandfather came west with the North West Mounted Police in the 1870s; her family has been ranching in the Alberta foothills for five generations. She can bake a pie, recite the alphabet backwards, catch fish, get the gate, hobble your horse, build a fire, write a poem, be the tenth caller in, and hum the theme songs to Gunsmoke and Have Gun Will Travel.

Doris has been an emcee and featured performer at every cowboy festival in Canada and several in the U.S., including gatherings in Nevada, Texas, California, Montana, Wyoming, Utah and Oregon. In 2001 she was invited to perform at a command performance for Canada's Governor General, amazing her friends and astonishing her relatives. In 2004, she received the Will Rogers Award for the Top Female Poet by the Academy of Western Artists.

What others say

"Doris is the pre-eminent female poet in this genre and the equal of any male writing today. In my opinion, she is the female Robert Service. Doris' verbal paintbrush is as captivating and as visual as the paintings of
Russell and Remington. If you want to know the West, listen to Doris Daley. Her gift is unique and her appeal is irresistible."
                       Jack Hannah, Sons of the San Joaquin

"Lots of poets can write, many can recite, but Doris writes, recites and really communicates.  Spontaneity, wit, meaningful words and a winning smile make this lady a performer you'll always remember."
                      Hugh McLennan, Kamloops, BC, host of Spirit of the West

"Her poems are very funny with no swears.  They're all pretty short and sweet.  She has some of the best poems I've ever listened to."
                      Cody O'Donnell, Coalhurst, Alberta, cowboy, age 11

photo by D. Boyes

Poems and Lyrics

Answering Machine
A Letter to Mr. Russell
100 Years from Now

Average Girl
The Great Canadian Cowboy
A Baxter of Blacks
A Real Partner

One Good Horse (separate page)


I wrote this one after sitting around the kitchen table listening to three cowboys moan about how dangerous and unhealthy it was to visit the city.

Three cowboys sit on a split rail fence,
Long on bruises, short on sense.
Put 'em together and what do you get—
Besides three pairs of jeans and a pile of debt.

Add 'em all up and the sum of their parts
Is 27 fingers and three broken hearts.
30 pretty toes, only 2 of them broke,
Hide more scarred than the bark of an oak.

Five good eyes, one made of glass,
Three bum knees and a bad case of gas.
Three strong backs—but all of them achin,
And three mustached smiles filled with Copenhagen.

A bottle of pills for a bad tick-tocker
And a half-full prescription from Dr. Johnny Walker.
A surgeon's nightmare sits on that rail,
But they're married to the range and bonded to the trail.

They'll never be famous, they'll never be wealthy
But they love the life-cause it's so darn healthy!

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



The west needs all kinds of people, each with a special gift, to make it work. Jean Prescott from Texas set this to music and recorded it on her Tapestry of the West album.

There’s a special pair of hands assigned to do each task,
And to do a job the best we know is as good as we can ask.
You can try to stand alone but your world will start to drift
So the good Lord struck a plan and gave each one a special gift.

So God, bless the hands that are brown and scarred and rough,
But hands that reach to help you when the trail is looking tough.
Bless the old and gnarled hands, no longer strong or stout,
But hands that still can teach you what a handshake’s all about.

Bless the hands of buckaroos, young and full of pride
That teach us when we get bucked off to get back on and ride.
Bless hands that make the saddles and hands that stack the hay,
Hands that speak to horses in a mystic, magic way.

Hands that till the land, fix the fence, and catch the bids.
And Cookie’s hands that punch the dough and slam the bean pot lids.
Bless hands that tell the story of a lifetime chasing steers,
But hands that aren’t too big to gently wipe a child’s tears.

Hands that reach across for yours to say the table grace,
Calloused hands that tenderly caress a sweetheart’s face.
Bless her soft and gentle hands that wear your ring with pride
And show their share of scars and scrapes from standing by your side.

Bless artists’ hands and sculptors’ hands and guitar pickers’ too,
They’re only trying to tell the story in a way that honours you.
And if you’re feeling generous Lord, and if you’ve got the time
Even bless the hands of those who write and try to make it rhyme.

God gives each hand a gift, with his grace we’ll stand the test.
Bless each one—we need each one—to build this place we call The West.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Answering Machine

Press 1 for this; Press 2 for that. You can't call a business anymore and
get a human being to answer. Here's what happens when the phone menu comes
to the ranch.

Thank you for calling Hayseed Ranch. We'll be with you sooner or later.
So please stay on the line for the next available operator.

Your call is very important to us. We have a digital recording contraption
Simply listen to the following menu and select the appropriate option:

For brown eggs, stock dog pups, a Farm King mower, Angora goats or Suffolk sheep,
Just tell us what you've got to trade and make an offer after the beep.

If those frisky Charolais heifers have jumped the barbed wire boundary
Enter their ear tag numbers now followed by the pound key.

Press 1 if you're selling insurance, Press 2 if you're from the bank
Press 3 if you want to tune our piano or clean the septic tank.

Press 4 to deliver your yearlings. Press 5 if you'll be here at dawn.
If you want us to adopt a tiger, hug a tree, sponsor a wolf, save a whale,
save Air Canada or save the Liberal Party.... Dial 1-800- DREAM ON.

Press 6 if you want to go hunting. Press 7 if you want to buy hay.
Press 8 for help with high school rodeo or 4-H Achievement Day.

Press 9 if you'd like to keep holding, it shouldn't be much longer now.
The grassfire is almost under control and so is the prolapsed cow.

Your call is very important to us and here's what we urge you to do:
Just stay on the line until your call is no longer important to you.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.




A French Canadian cowboy came out west to work on a big ranch in BC. He was
gregarious, likeable and a good worker, but he didn't last through the spring. This poem tells why.

I remember the year we hired Pierre,
A dashing French cowboy from Old Trois Rivieres.
A ten-gallon chapeau and a dashing mustache,
He rode with élan and he roped with panache.
A stouthearted fellow with je ne sais quoi,
A hybrid of cowboy and coureur du bois.
He'd laugh and he'd sing, he'd joke and he'd babble,
Never mind the emphasis was on the wrong syllable.
He was well loved by all and we wished he would stay,
So the mystery remains why he left us that day.

It was early in spring, the lambs had done great.
Time to bob off their tails and alter the fate
Of little Fleecy and Snowflake, so with surgery done
The nuggets were broiled, served up on a ;bun.
"Ooh la la!" sang Pierre, "This lunch is delish!
What do you call such a marvelous dish?"
"Lamb fries," said Cookie, "Here, help yourself,
They don't last too long on the old cookhouse shelf."
Later in May the scene was repeated,
Branding was done, the cowboys were treated
To oysters, a culinary first for Pierre,
"Magnifique!" he called out, "Why they taste like tourtiere."
Cookie explained how he breaded and fried 'em,
"Calf fries," he said, "You haven't lived till you tried 'em."

It was new to Pierre, this cuisine de la range:
Lamb fries, then calf fries-it was all a bit strange.
But he had to admit, the taste was first-rate.
What wonderful morsels would next grace his plate?
Well, he didn't wait long, the very next day
A wonderful fragrance was wafting his way.
Would it be a ragout or an airy soufflé?
The smell from the stove foretold something gourmet.
"What's for lunch?" Pierre called out, and what he heard made him wince.
"French fries!" said Cookie. Pierre hasn't been seen or heard of since.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



A Letter to Mr. Russell

Here's a poem that contrasts our "new and improved" times to when the west
was new in the 1880s and 90s. The first italicized line in every verse is
the title of a Charlie Russell painting.

Dear Charlie,
Well I guess they call it progress and progress ain't all bad.
For sure I have advantages that Grandma never had.
But lately I can scarce keep up
With all the lingo in my cup.
It's a chowder I don't want to sup.
It's sad.

I know it weren't all roses back before they strung the wire.
But each new "improvement" sends us from the fat into the fire.
We soldier on, regroup, take stock,
We've still escaped the chopping block
But Charlie, you should hear us talk.
It's dire.

When the land belonged to God
No SUVs where bison trod
No ATMs or ATVs
No Enron run by SOBs
No NAFTA and no GST.

When you waited for a Chinook,
No HBO or Selfhelp book.
No PCBs or toxic spill
No BLM or Dr. Phil.
No I-15 or Y2K

When the Judith was plumb hog wild
No Eminem or Destiny's Child
No Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.
No GPS when cows got loose
No HP Sauce or V8 Juice.

Before the whiteman came,
Big Brother didn't run the game.
No CNN on 24/7
No 7-up or 7-11
No dub dub dub dot west.com

Please send a bronc to breakfast soon
And kick this nonsense to the moon.
Charlie, here's my fervent plea:
When my time is up may I R.I.P.
Till then, a prayer for this world and me:
May we get a grip ASAP
                     Signed, DD

© 2004, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



100 Years From Now  

100 years from now, if the world’s still in the game,
May the earth recall our footprints, may the wind sing out our names.
May someone turn a page and hearken back upon this time,
May someone sing a cowboy tune and someone spin a rhyme.

History buffs will study us and time will tell its tales
Our lives will be a brittle pile of cold and quaint details.
A scrap of faded photograph, a news headline or two...
But life was so much more, my friend, when the century was new.  

100 years from now, don’t look back and think me quaint,
Don’t judge and call me sinner, don’t judge and call me saint.
We lived beneath the arch with a mix of grit and grace,
Just ordinary folk in an extraordinary place.

So 100 years from now hear our ancient voices call,
Know that life was good and the cowboy still rode tall.
Wild flowers filled our valleys and the coyotes were our choir
We knew some wild places that had never known the wire.  

We raised stouthearted horses; we’d ride and let ‘er rip
We burned beneath the summer sun and railed at winter’s grip.
We took a little courage when the crocus bloomed each spring
We loved beneath the stars and we heard the night wind sing.

We buried and we married, we danced and laughed and cried
And there were times we failed, but let the records show we tried.
And sure, I have regrets; I made more than one mistake
If I had it to do over there are trails I wouldn’t take.

But the sun rose up each day, we’d make it through another year
We’d watch the skies and count our calves and hoist a cup of cheer.
We knew drought and fire and heartache, we knew fat and we knew bone
But we were silver lining people and we never rode alone.  

So, Friend, if you are reading this 100 years from now
Understand that we were pilgrims who just made it through somehow.
We’ve crossed the river home and we left but one request:
100 years from now, think back kindly on the west.

And ordinary folk, no special fate, no special claims
But 100 years from now, may the wind sing out our names.
Know the times were good and we rode the best we know.
We loved the west; we kept the faith, 100 years ago.

© 2004, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission


Average Girl

I’d boast about my calf crop but I had to sell my cows
If you saw me on a gather you’d be right to raise your brows.
I never ran the barrels even when I was a pup.
It takes me 18 seconds just to swing my right leg up.

I never won a buckle and I never roped a bear.
I can’t set a decent post, I don’t wear Carhartt underwear
My cow dog is a Labrador; my chore truck is a Rav.
Rocket Busters are a luxury I know I’ll never have.

I don’t own Garcia spurs, I’m Joe Average, I admit
I can’t throw the hoolihan; heck, I can barely throw a fit.
I’m not so hot reversing if a trailer’s on behind.
If you pick me last for roping, I assure you I won’t mind.

When they’re calling for the buckaroos, I‘ll never make the cut
Goodness knows I’d strut my stuff but I have no stuff to strut.
I’m Average Girl! The one whose cowboy skills are pretty thin,
Still, when you’re rounding up the westerners, I hope you’ll count me in.

Songs are rightly sung about the exploits of the great.
Me—I’m just thrilled to tag along, content to get the gate.
Who sings a cowboy anthem for the average Jack and Jill?
What page is spilled with ink from the cowboy poet’s quill?

Here’s a toast to all us plodders who will never lead the race.
We’re barely worth our porridge but our heart’s in the right place.
We’re the first to stand and cheer when the experts do their best
We don’t sparkle, flash or dazzle, we’re just glad to live out west.

For each mediocre rider, for each average girl and guy
I say: Thank you, God, for placing us beneath a western sky.
In my case, being average has turned out to be a perk
I just get to wear the clothes cause no one wants me for my work!

© 2008, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission


The Great Canadian Cowboy

A St. John's cowboy dreams of rubber boots and Newfie sod
Oh, he can worry down a T-bone but he'd rather have salt cod.

A cowboy from Quebec laughs at danger! It's routine.
He buys his boots from Boulet and his spuds come as poutine.

A cowboy from Toronto has an Upper Canada aura
And is astonished to find out that there's life west of Kenora.

Manitoba buckaroos arm themselves like tough banditos...
Not for bear or skunk or varmints but for shooting down mosquitoes.

You can tell a hand from Saskatoon, Wadena or Val Marie...
A hill will have him baffled and he'll vote for NDP.

Out on Alberta ranches, the cowboy wears a grin;
He's only ranching for amusement till the oil well comes in.

On Lotus Land rancheros, Vancouver and thereabout,
The steaks are made of tofu and served up with a side of sprouts.

As different as each region is there's one thing they all share.
The Great Canadian Cowboy gives his all with none to spare.

So here's to that breed of women and men with the maple leaf bandana.
They work all week for wages bleak, then watch Hockey Night in Canada.

So get some rest when the sun sinks west, tomorrow a busy day's planned:
There's fence to fix, and breakfast's at 6 (6:30 in Newfoundland).

Across this land you'll see his brand, and there's nowhere he'd rather be
Than raising Canadian cattle in the True North strong and free.

© 2003, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission

Photo by Penny Germaine, taken at the BAR U Ranch

This poem is included in Doris Daley's 2003 book, Rhyme & Reason, along with a companion poem, "The Great American Cowboy."


A Baxter of Blacks

Sheep come in flocks, whales come in pods,
Geese come in gaggles, police come in squads.
There are hovers of trout, bouquets of pheasants
Bands of gypsies and rabbles of peasants.

Prides for a lion, packs for a rat
Lamentations of swans-what's up with that?
Hosts of angels, dens of thieves.
What else has the language got up her sleeves?

Collective nouns-how droll, how poetic!
But where are the nouns with a cowboy aesthetic?
Mr. Webster, I fear, lacked in western perspectives
So I offer my word list of cowboy collectives.

A gavel of auctioneers
A marble of fattened steers.
A Bodacious of bucking Brahmas
A shank of Tony Lamas.
A clutch of John Deere tractors
A Clint of western actors.
A chip of coffee shop mugs
An Ian of Navajo rugs.
An annoyance of all-know-its.
An Elko of cowboy poets.
A King of roping resources
And now…for the horses.

A rum of Morgans, a dapple of greys
An acorn of chestnuts, a Hudson of bays.
A bray of Jennies, a stubborn of Jacks
A sunburn of whites, a Baxter of blacks.
A shag of Shetland ponies
A rack of skin-and-bonies.
A bourbon of Tennessee walkers
An amazement of Mr. Ed talkers.
A prance of Lipizzaners
A Preakness of also-ranners.
A gait of Paso Finos
A Trigger of palominos.

Friends, add these terms to your vocab
And dazzle your friends with the gift of the gab
But caution to you collective noun go-getters:
Best to quit before you get to manure-spreaders.

© 2009 Doris Daley. All rights reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission


 Top cowboy poet Baxter Black likes the poem; he lists it on his web site among his favorites in What’s in Baxter’s Truck.


A Real Partner

My name is Guy Weadick, how do you do?
A pleasure to meet you, Miss Flores LeDue!
The horses are saddled, would you care for a ride?
I'd be proud to step out with you by my side.
I'll tell you my dreams about a big western show.
I'm throwing a big loop by the banks of the Bow.

Mr. Weadick, I'm told, you talk big and bold.
That's fine with me, 'cause ordinary leaves me cold.
I'd love to go riding, as it happens I'm free
Any horse that has hair is just dandy with me.
I've had my eye on you from the start
When you're throwing your loop, you might aim for my heart.

She had her trick rope and he had a dream,
They aimed for the stars and they pulled as a team.
With sparkle and spunk they could conquer the world.
A gamble, a promise, a plan was unfurled.
They rode side by side and they rode to succeed,
And they did it! They started the Calgary Stampede.

A daring-do husband, a plucky young wife
Hell bent for leather, lived larger than life.
Partners in work and partners in play–
They rode by a standard that lives on today.
A heart full of Try. A world full of Yes.
A legacy branded the C Lazy S.

1951: her last setting sun.
Her saddle is empty, her last race is run.
A cowboy heads west, a grave stands alone
And three little words are carved on a stone.
Three little words, but they stand true and tall,
A Real Partner, and that, in the west, says it all.

© 2012 Doris Daley. All rights reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission

This poem is from 100 Years of Thunder, which celebrates the 2012 centennial of the Calgary Stampede.

Doris Daley comments, "A novelist has 300-400 pages to work with, I have 24 or 36 lines. So when I sat down to write a poem about the Calgary Stampede, I needed to be very focused. I knew that partners would be a theme: the partnership between a barrel racer and her horse; between a pick-up man and a bronc rider; between the Calgary Stampede and the city. And I knew I wanted to tip my hat to Stampede western showman/founder Guy Weadick and his trick roper wife Flores LaDue. They lived out their lives about 30 miles south west of where I live now; they are buried in the High River cemetery. When I visited their graves, and saw the three little words that Guy Weadick inscribed on his wife's headstone, I knew I had what I needed to write my poem. The Calgary Stampede invited me to recite this poem last year when they unveiled the 2012 poster for this year's celebration."


See a YouTube video about Doris Daley and her poetry here.

Read Doris Daley's

Goodnight to the Trail in the BAR-D poetry column


Mr. No Regrets in our Art Spur Project

and her essay:

"'And Now for our Next Poet, Who I’ve Never Met Before…'; Suggestions for Hosting a Show."

Read Doris Daley's All My Trails in a feature about Jean Prescott's Sweethearts in Carhartts recording.

dorisdale.jpg (16446 bytes)

Read Doris Daley's Thank Heavens for Dale Evans, posted with other tributes to the Queen of the West.


Read Doris Daley's A Christmas Prayer, posted with other Holiday 2003 poems.



Books and Recordings


Poems from the Million Star Resort


Poems from the Million Star Resort, released Jan. 1, 2016, is Doris Daley's new book of contemporary western poetry. With 44 poems (including "Let it Be," "Back in Seattle Again," all the poems from the 100 Years of Thunder album, and of course the poem that lends its name to the book). As an added bonus, sprinkled throughout the book are cameo appearances from many of today's top western writers who reflect on the impact of poetry—and the tribe of cowboy poetsin today's world. Poems from the Million Star Resort is $25 postpaid. Email Doris at ddaley@telus.net.




One Hundred Years of Thunder
A celebration of the Calgary Stampede

with music by Bruce Innes, historical essays by Wendy Bryden, and photographs by Neville Palmer

A Real Partner (poem)
Together Forever For Sure (song)
The Outrider (poem)
The Race (song)
Bones (poem)
Hard Times for Cowboys (song)
My Father's Hat (poem)
White Stetson Hat (song)
100 Years from Now (poem)
Alberta Song (song)
A Passion for Pancakes (poem)
Flapjacks and bacon (song)
Heartbeat (poem)
The People (song)
Let 'er Buck, Tune 'er Up (poem)
Hold it on the Road (song)
It Takes Sand (poem)
Outlaw (song)
100 Years of Thunder (poem)
100 Years of Thunder (song)

Find more at the project's web site and on Facebook.

Available from:

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 1552
Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0




West Word Ho!
The western poetry of Doris Daley


Fun and Nonsense

A Baxter of Blacks
Rancho Tarbucks
Where are they Now?
My Western Magazine
Dancing with the Stars
How I Learned to Count
Kitchen Cupboards
Average Girl
Stand Upwind from Me
Chuck's Cowboy Cafe
French Fries
The Answering Machine

Romance on the Range

Love on the Range
Meet Jake, my darling sweetheart
Meet Sue, my darling sweetheart
The Love Letter
A True Partner
Treat me like a Thoroughbred, Honey

Old Friends

A Letter to Mr. Russell
Here's to you Miss Dale
Will James and other Canadian Content

Grit and Grace

Mary's Window
3/4 Time
One Good Horse
What is a Westerner?
100 Years from Now
End Times
The Millionaire
Signs that I keep
Goodnight to the Trail
Wild Roses
Shades of the West (Rainbow Poem)
What if?
I am the Crocus
Light the Way Home

Christmas Time

Christmas in Alberta
Barnyard Christmas Eve
Mary, Merry Christmas

Name that Tune


Mary Daley's Journal
Index to first lines
Author's bio

Available $25 (USD), $22 (Canadian) postpaid

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 1552
Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0



Beneath a Western Sky


Western Music Association (WMA)
Top Cowboy Poetry Alburm

...with two guest appearances from my songwriting partner Eli Barsi.


Rancho Tarbucks
Average Girl
Dancing with the Stars
Will James (and other Canadian content)
A Baxter of Blacks
How I Learned to Count
Don't Drive the Tractor
Mary's Window
Riding Home to You
Meet Jake
Meet Sue
What is a Westerner
100 Years from Now
Shades of the West
Goodnight to the Trail


Available $15 (USD), $20 (Canadian), plus postage

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 1552
Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0





Good for What Ails You


Good for What Ails You, by Doris Daley was recorded live in concert in September, 2005. It contains "Answering Machine," "Bones," "Bless these Hands," "My Perfume," "End Times," "Letter to Charlie," "Skunk in the Bunkhouse," and many more poems and a few musical surprises

Available postpaid $18 (USD), $20 (Canadian)

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 1552
Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0





 Rhyme & Reason

Doris Daley's 2003 book, Rhyme & Reason, includes:

Answering Machine
Horse from Alberta
The Tractor in the Bog
Great Canadian Cowboy
Great American Cowboy
Potato People
Thank Heavens for Dale Evans (separate page)
Old Age
Riding a Dead Horse
Things You'll Never Hear a Cowboy Say
Saturday Night Bath
Dear Sweetheart
Wedding Vows
Wild and Wooly (Osteoporosis)
Wild and Wooly (Governor General)
Norma's Bread
Norma's Pies
Love is Blind
Paul's Letter to the Bovinians
Noah's Ark
This Journey
Bless These Hands (
100 Years from Now
From Mary's Window
Table Grace

Postpaid $ 14 (USD), $17 (Canadian)

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 1552
Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0





 Poetry in Motion 


Doris Daley's 2003 CD, Poetry in Motion, includes:

Old Age
Answering Machine
Dear Sweetheart
Love is Blind
French Fries (
Great American Cowboy
100 Years from Now
Bless These Hands (
Songs that I Keep
Name That Tune

with musicians David Wilkie (Cowboy Celtic), Jake Peters, Randy Zwally, and Eli Barsi

Postpaid $ 17 (USD), $20 (Canadian)

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 1552
Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0




An earlier cassette recording, Three Babes on a Bale, was recorded in 1996

Contact Information

Contact Doris Daley at:

Box 1552
 Black Diamond, AB
T0L 0H0








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