"O bury me not on the lone prairie," These words came low and mournfully From the pallid lips of a youth who lay On his dying bed at the close of day. He had wailed in pain till o'er his brow Death's shadows fast were gathering now; He thought of his home and his loved ones nigh As the cowboys gathered to see him die. "O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, In a narrow grave just six by three, O bury me not on the lone prairie. "In fancy I listen to the well known words Of the free, wild winds and the song of the birds; I think of home and the cottage in the bower And the scenes I loved in my childhood's hour. "It matters not, I've oft been told, Where the body lies when the heart grows cold; Yet grant, Oh grant this wish to me, O bury me not on the lone prairie. "O then bury me not on the lone prairie, In a narrow grave six foot by three, Where the buffalo paws o'er a prairie sea, O bury me not on the lone prairie. "I've always wished to be laid when I died In the little churchyard on the green hillside; By my father's grave, there let mine be, And bury me not on the lone prairie. "Let my death slumber be where my mother's prayer And a sister's tear will mingle there, Where my friends can come and weep o'er me; O bury me not on the lone prairie. "O bury me not on the lone prairie In a narrow grave just six by three, Where the buzzard waits and the wind blows free; Then bury me not on the lone prairie. "There is another whose tears may be shed For one who lies on a prairie bed; It pained me then and it pains me now;— She has curled these locks, she has kissed this brow. "These locks she has curled, shall the rattlesnake kiss? This brow she has kissed, shall the cold grave press? For the sake of the loved ones that will weep for me O bury me not on the lone prairie. "O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, Where the buzzard beats and the wind goes free, O bury me not on the lone prairie. "O bury me not," and his voice failed there, But we took no heed of his dying prayer; In a narrow grave just six by three We buried him there on the lone prairie. Where the dew-drops glow and the butterflies rest, And the flowers bloom o'er the prairie's crest; Where the wild cayote and winds sport free On a wet saddle blanket lay a cowboy-ee. "O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the crow flies free O bury me not on the lone prairie." O we buried him there on the lone prairie Where the wild rose blooms and the wind blows free, O his pale young face nevermore to see,— For we buried him there on the lone prairie. Yes, we buried him there on the lone prairie Where the owl all night hoots mournfully, And the blizzard beats and the winds blow free O'er his lowly grave on the lone prairie. And the cowboys now as they roam the plain,— For they marked the spot where his bones were lain,— Fling a handful of roses o'er his grave, With a prayer to Him who his soul will save. "O bury me not on the lone prairie Where the wolves can howl and growl o'er me; Fling a handful of roses o'er my grave With a prayer to Him who my soul will save."

THE DAYS OF FORTY-NINE

We are gazing now on old Tom Moore, A relic of bygone days; 'Tis a bummer, too, they call me now, But what cares I for praise? It's oft, says I, for the days gone by, It's oft do I repine For the days of old when we dug out the gold In those days of Forty-Nine. My comrades they all loved me well, The jolly, saucy crew; A few hard cases, I will admit, Though they were brave and true. Whatever the pinch, they ne'er would flinch; They never would fret nor whine, Like good old bricks they stood the kicks In the days of Forty-Nine. There's old "Aunt Jess," that hard old cuss, Who never would repent; He never missed a single meal, Nor never paid a cent. But old "Aunt Jess," like all the rest, At death he did resign, And in his bloom went up the flume In the days of Forty-Nine. There is Ragshag Jim, the roaring man, Who could out-roar a buffalo, you bet, He roared all day and he roared all night, And I guess he is roaring yet. One night Jim fell in a prospect hole,— It was a roaring bad design,— And in that hole Jim roared out his soul In the days of Forty-Nine. There is Wylie Bill, the funny man, Who was full of funny tricks, And when he was in a poker game He was always hard as bricks. He would ante you a stud, he would play you a draw, He'd go you a hatful blind,— In a struggle with death Bill lost his breath In the days of Forty-Nine. There was New York Jake, the butcher boy, Who was fond of getting tight. And every time he got on a spree He was spoiling for a fight. One night Jake rampaged against a knife In the hands of old Bob Sine, And over Jake they held a wake In the days of Forty-Nine. There was Monte Pete, I'll ne'er forget The luck he always had, He would deal for you both day and night Or as long as he had a scad. It was a pistol shot that lay Pete out, It was his last resign, And it caught Pete dead sure in the door In the days of Forty-Nine. Of all the comrades that I've had There's none that's left to boast, And I am left alone in my misery Like some poor wandering ghost. And as I pass from town to town, They call me the rambling sign, Since the days of old and the days of gold And the days of Forty-Nine.

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