Lake McDonald by Charles M. Russell
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When ridin’ solo in the hills ‘mid tumbleweeds and sand. A cowboy’s view from top his saddle stretches far and wide; Vast panoramic sights of splendor span from side to side. There’s time to think, and time to plan, and time to dream a dream. ‘Tis on such rides a tiny seed becomes a full-blown scheme. Most cowhands think of what could be and this man was the same; He hoped to one day buy some ground, yes, own it in his name. He recognized the majesty, the grandeur of the land, Acknowledgin’ the glory of the Master’s mighty hand. He knew the form of Indian Butte and rode its highest crest; And he could find the tallest pine, knew where the eagles nest. He knew the trails and where they led, each path he knew by heart; He knew where streams ran cool and clear, and where they split apart. He’d rise up early just to catch the sun’s first rays of light; He’d listen for the sound of geese that sang while in mid flight. He heard the music nature played—the gentle fall of rain, The Mournin’ Dove, the gustin’ wind o’er rocky desert plain. This land was his! He worked for it and paid with sweat and tears. He plowed the soil and planted crops—improved it o’er the years. He raised some cattle on that ground and built a cabin there, And hoped that someday down the line he’d leave it to his heir. But urban sprawl has pushed him out and changed life in the wild; What legacy will there remain to pass on to his child? Yes, times have changed, and progress says he can’t go back again. Now he is left with nuthin’ more than tales of “Way back when…” Folks see him as an oddity; his dreams all went astray— The way he lives, the things he loves, they have no place today. He can’t forsake his hopes and dreams as long as he has breath; No, nuthin’ can deter his dream except the stroke of death. It seems his time is comin’ fast; the end is drawin’ nigh— He recollects far distant times and breathes a heavy sigh. ‘Twas diff’rent than he thought it’d be when night came closin’ in; A pocket watch and old guitar, that’s all he left his kin. He loved the land with all his heart ‘though his had dwindled down. And what remained? A rented shack, there on the edge of town. But they can’t take away the land he’ll use for his last sleep; A bit of God’s own precious earth—three wide and six feet deep. That land is his; he worked for it, and paid with sweat and tears—
A narrow
plot is all he owns, but his throughout the years.
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hest,
was sold before more damage could be done. Too late—the
“cowboy way” was already in my blood.