Rangeland Lament

Now he sleeps in the cold quiet grassland
Where he used to ride handsome and free,
Just a cowboy who worked for his wages
And on Sundays came calling for me.

Oh, he called me his girl of the prairie,
And I called him my knight of the range.
And we fancied the call of the coyote—–
Like our love, oh, it never would change.

When we walked on the prairie in springtime
We would talk of the years yet to come—–
How we’d save for a few head of cattle
And a homestead to call all our own.

We were married the fifth of November
When the wage-work was done for the fall,
And we filed for our land in December,
Plus a brand we could hang on the wall.

For the first year we scratched out a living,
Built a shack and a three-rail corral,
Put a dozen lean cows out to pasture
And were set when the first snowstorm fell.

Of the twelve cows we started in autumn
There were ten that had calves in the spring,
So we planned to have our first branding
When the grass was beginning to green.

But a cold rainy day in late April
Brought an end to the plans we had made
When a trio of men on dark horses
Arrived with the tools of their trade.

From the cabin I heard the shots fired
And his voice as he called me in vain.
Three men in dark hats and dark slickers
Rode away in the cold April rain.

Now the months have gone by, and our cattle
Have been marked with a big outfit’s brand,
And with each passing day it is harder
To believe in the justice of man.

When I hear the lone wail of the coyote
At the end of a short winter day
In the thin air of darkening rangeland,
Now his desolate notes seem to say:

Tell me who will mourn for a cowboy
As he sleeps ‘neath the cold barren sod—–
Tell me who will seek out his killers,
Tell me where is the justice of God?

Tell me who will mourn for a cowboy—–
Tell me where is the justice of God?