- A poem by Edgar Guest

Ten years of "Hi-Yo Silver!"  Ten years of riding hard!
Ten years of pistol shooting and still alive unscarred!         

Ten years of horse and rider, of wagon, pack, and stage.
Ten years of desperados and still no sign of age.

Ten years of "me called Tonto," the masked man's faithful scout.
A thousand times they've shot him and still he rides about.

Ten years of hooves a-gallop with never a sign of drag.
Ten years of laryngitis for good ol' Mustang Mag.

Three nights a week I've listened (his devotee am I).
To hear the masked man giving his long familiar cry.

"Hi, Silver, there is danger! It's time to hit the trail!
Beyond the gulch they're waiting to rob the western mail!

Ten years for good ol' Silver's persistent chase of thieves.
And still no sign of spavin, or bott, or gall, or heaves.

Ten years of vice and virtue. Ten years of war with sin.
That's 1,500 battles and every one a win!

But now to change the picture. Ten years of scenes like these:
"Turn off the radio, Willie, and come to supper, please."

Ten years of youth excited, wide-eyed, and tousled brow,
replying, "Just a minute! The Ranger's on right now!"

"He's shouting, 'Hi Yo, Silver, Away! There's danger grave!
They're holding up the stagecoach! There's gold we've got to save!"

And still, as when he started, the boys on every street
would rather hear The Ranger than sit them down to eat.

Oh, who would trace the glory of ten such golden years
would find it all lived over in countless brave careers.

He'd find it in the jungles, the seven seas and skies.
For who sets high example sets that which never dies.

Who walks the path of honor takes many a lad along.
For boys are quick to follow where leadership is strong.

Edgar Guest
January 30, 1943

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