“oh, 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.
“it matters not, so i’ve been told,
where the body lies when the heart grows cold;
but grant, oh, grant this wish to me:
bury me not on the lone prairie.
“bury me not on the lone prairie
where coyotes howl and the wind blows free;”
in a narrow grave six foot by three,
bury me not on the lone prairie,”
“oh, 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.
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 god his soul will save.
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