Lyr Req: we're riding in the morning/ evening

Subject: Lyr Req: we're riding in the morning/ evening
From: GUEST,krisdinfl
Date: 01 Jan 10 - 01:28 PM

Anyone remember the lyrics to this song? I used to sing it at Camp Hitaga, and I think it was a round

We're riding in the morning out from my father's house
Hear the bride all a-jingle. Bells ring so gay
Canter, canter ----------- highway, then down by the green by-way,
In the shadow of the deep wild, woods - Oh happy day!

Second verese is the same except substute the words "in the evening" and "home to" my father's house.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: we're riding in the morning/ evening
From: GUEST,eva
Date: 16 Mar 13 - 05:35 PM

The second verse, the way we used to sing it at Osito Rancho goes:


We are riding in the evening back to my father's house
Hear the bridle all a-jingle, bells ring so gay
trotting trotting down the long lone road
then down the green home road
smell the cooking done in best home mode
happiness there!

That was in 1945 and I still sing it to my horse as we are going home.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: we're riding in the morning/ evening
From: GUEST,Dr. Crunch
Date: 02 May 15 - 11:40 PM

We were riding out one morning far from my father's house.
Hear the bridle all a-jingle -- bells ring so gay.
Canter, canter, canter down a broad highway
Then down a green byway,
In the shadow of the deep wild, woods
You'll find it's May.

If you could find a way to record sound, I would sing this to you,

Subject: ADD: The Journey (Ernest Blake)
From: Joe Offer
Date: 03 May 15 - 12:21 AM

Hmmmm. Seems like we should be able to come up with something on this.
This page (click) says the song is titled "The Journey," published in 1920, with lyrics by Ernest Blake and melody by John Nicholson)

It's also a poem in the Literary Digest, Vol 47, 8 Nov 1913:

THE JOURNEY (Via Vitae)
(Blake & Nicholson)

Do you see the road a-winding through the dear green fields below?
Hear the bridle-bells a-jingle on the horses as they go?
Then beside blue flashing rivers, where the tall reeds softly sing
Plaintive songs of weary Autumn, lyric carolings of Spring.

Down the slopes wild pines rush headlong, tossing each his ragged plume,
Plunging all its life and glory in a shadowland of gloom;
But the shadows are but shadows. Hark! the bells are jingling still;
See, it ends the journey, mounting where the sunlight's on the hill.