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But the bright campfire light only dances for a night, While the home-fire burns forever clear and true, So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks, 'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you.

Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun Had shot a charge of fire through my veins, And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and fun 'Mong the mav'ricks drifted from the plains.

Murder my sleep with revel; Make me ride through the bogs Knee to knee with the devil, Just ahead of the dogs. I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite-- And yet I liked 'em just a week ago. 'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur-- And, when I raised him up so limp and weak, One look before his eyes begun to blur And then--the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!

I harrow the Bad Lands level, I teach the tiger to purr, For saints may wallow and lie But I Go clean-hearted to her! And him so strong, and yet so quick he died, And after year on year When we had always trailed it side by side, He went--and left me here!

Oh I just kaint stand it thinkin; Of the things that happened then. Bunch the deserts together, Hang three suns in the vault; Scorch the lizards to leather, Strangle the springs with salt.

I fly with a buzzard feather, I dig me wells with a spur, And snakes may famish and fry But I Cross that desert to her! I seem the only thing on earth that cares 'Cause Al ain't here no more!

When I couldn't help but tell her She was "all the world to me."But her folks said I was "shif'less," "Wild," "unsettled.,"— they was right, For I leaned to punchin' cattle And I'm at it still tonight. Cut loose a hundred rivers, Roaring across my trail, Swift as the lightning quivers, Loud as a mountain gale.

And she married young Doc Wilkins— Oh my Lord! Wish that fool would quit his singin' "Annie Laurie" out on guard. I build me a boat of slivers; I weave me a sail of fur, And ducks may founder and die But I Cross that river to her!

appeared to have ridden directly out of books of adventure, with old young faces full of bad grammar, strange oaths and stranger yarns, and hearts for the most part as open and shadowless as the country they daily ranged."Oh Lord, I've never lived where churches grow.

I wait to hear him ridin' up behind And feel his knee rub mine the good old way He's dead--and what that means no man kin tell. Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring Had weedled me to hoppin' of the bars.

And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars.

What was my amazement, in examining this literary curiosity, to find that it was my Glory Trail, with slight alterations, such as the omission of one line in the refrain, such rubbings down and chippings off as might happen to it in passing from mouth to mouth.

I own that the "folksong" version is in some points more striking, and easy than my more labored original, and I believe it is better known.

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