| My father was a mountaineer
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| His fist was a knotty hammer
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| He was quick on his feet like a runnin' deer
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| And he spoke with a Yankee stammer
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| And some are wrapped in linen fine
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| And some like a godling’s scion
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| But I was cradled on twigs of pine
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| In the skin of a mountain lion
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| I lost my boyhood and found my wife
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| A girl like a Salem clipper
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| A woman as straight as a hunting knife
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| With eyes as bright as the Dipper
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| We cleared our camp where the buffalo feed
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| Unheard of streams were our flagons
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| And I sowed my sons like apple seed
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| On the trail of the Western wagons
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| They were right, tight boys, never sulky or slow
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| A fruitful, goodly muster
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| The eldest died at the Alamo
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| And the youngest fell with Custer
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| The letter that told it burned my hand
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| I smiled and said, «So be it!»
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| But I could not live when they fenced my land
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| Oh it broke my heart just to see it
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| I saddled the red, unbroken colt
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| I rode him into the day there
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| But he threw me down like a thunderbolt
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| And he rolled on me as I lay there
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| Now I lie in the heart of the fat, black soil
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| Like the seed of a prairie thistle
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| It has washed my bones in honey and oil
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| And it’s picked 'em as clean as a whistle
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| And my youth returns, like the rains of Spring
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| My sons, like wild geese flying
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| And I lie and I hear the meadowlark sing
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| And there’s much content in my dying
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| Go play with the town you have built out of blocks
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| The towns where you may have bound me
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| I sleep in the earth like a tired old fox
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| And my buffalo have found me
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| I sleep in the earth like a tired old fox,
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| And my buffalo have found me |