Cowboy Songs, and Other Frontier Ballads. Various

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      On Buena Vista battlefield

      A dying soldier lay,

      His thoughts were on his mountain home

      Some thousand miles away.

      He called his comrade to his side,

      For much he had to say,

      In briefest words to those who were

      Some thousand miles away.

      "My father, comrade, you will tell

      About this bloody fray;

      My country's flag, you'll say to him,

      Was safe with me to-day.

      I make a pillow of it now

      On which to lay my head,

      A winding sheet you'll make of it

      When I am with the dead.

      "I know 'twill grieve his inmost soul

      To think I never more

      Will sit with him beneath the oak

      That shades the cottage door;

      But tell that time-worn patriot,

      That, mindful of his fame,

      Upon this bloody battlefield

      I sullied not his name.

      "My mother's form is with me now,

      Her will is in my ear,

      And drop by drop as flows my blood

      So flows from her the tear.

      And oh, when you shall tell to her

      The tidings of this day,

      Speak softly, comrade, softly speak

      What you may have to say.

      "Speak not to her in blighting words

      The blighting news you bear,

      The cords of life might snap too soon,

      So, comrade, have a care.

      I am her only, cherished child,

      But tell her that I died

      Rejoicing that she taught me young

      To take my country's side.

      "But, comrade, there's one more,

      She's gentle as a fawn;

      She lives upon the sloping hill

      That overlooks the lawn,

      The lawn where I shall never more

      Go forth with her in merry mood

      To gather wild-wood flowers.

      "Tell her when death was on my brow

      And life receding fast,

      Her looks, her form was with me then,

      Were with me to the last.

      On Buena Vista's bloody field

      Tell her I dying lay,

      And that I knew she thought of me

      Some thousand miles away."

      I love not Colorado

      Where the faro table grows,

      And down the desperado

      The rippling Bourbon flows;

      Nor seek I fair Montana

      Of bowie-lunging fame;

      The pistol ring of fair Wyoming

      I leave to nobler game.

      Sweet poker-haunted Kansas

      In vain allures the eye;

      The Nevada rough has charms enough

      Yet its blandishments I fly.

      Shall Arizona woo me

      Where the meek Apache bides?

      Or New Mexico where natives grow

      With arrow-proof insides?

      Nay, 'tis where the grizzlies wander

      And the lonely diggers roam,

      And the grim Chinese from the squatter flees

      That I'll make my humble home.

      I'll chase the wild tarantula

      And the fierce cayote I'll dare,

      And the locust grim, I'll battle him

      In his native wildwood lair.

      Or I'll seek the gulch deserted

      And dream of the wild Red man,

      And I'll build a cot on a corner lot

      And get rich as soon as I can.

      Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam,

      Where the deer and the antelope play,

      Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

      And the skies are not cloudy all day.

      Home, home on the range,

      Where the deer and the antelope play;

      Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

      And the skies are not cloudy all day.

      Where the air is so pure, the zephyrs so free,

      The breezes so balmy and light,

      That I would not exchange my home on the range

      For all of the cities so bright.

      The red man was pressed from this part of the West,

      He's likely no more to return

      To the banks of Red River where seldom if ever

      Their flickering camp-fires burn.

      How often at night when the heavens are bright

      With the light from the glittering stars,

      Have I stood here amazed and asked as I gazed

      If their glory exceeds that of ours.

      Oh, I love these wild flowers in this dear land of ours,

      The curlew I love to hear scream,

      And I love the white rocks and the antelope flocks

      That graze on the mountain-tops green.

      Oh, give me a land where the bright diamond sand

      Flows leisurely down the stream;

      Where the graceful white swan goes gliding along

      Like a maid in a heavenly dream.

      Then I would not exchange my home on the range,

      Where the deer and the antelope play;

      Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

      And the skies are not cloudy all day.

      Home, home on the range,

      Where the deer and the antelope play;

      Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

      And the skies are not cloudy all day.

      Come, all you Texas rangers, wherever you may be,

      I'll tell СКАЧАТЬ