Those words came slow and mournfully
From the pallid lips of a youth that lay
On his dying couch at the close of day.
Death’s shadows fast were drawing now;
He had thought of home and the loved ones nigh,
As the cowboys gathered to see him die.
The wild wind and the sound of birds;
He had thought of home and the cottonwood boughs,
Of the scenes that he loved in his childhood hours.
In the old churchyard on the green hillside,
By the grave of my father, oh, let my grave be;
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.
And a sister’s tear can mingle there;
Where friends can come and weep o’er me;
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.
They paid no heed to his dying prayer;
In a narrow grave just six by three,
They laid him there on the lone prairie.
The wild rose blooms on the prairie’s crest,
Where the coyotes howl and the wind sports free,
They laid him there on the lone prairie.
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