And we couldn't reach the timber, we burned our bunks, instead,
While, camped around the gullies, lay five hundred Sioux in wait;
That's how we stood at Buford on Christmas, '68!
We were out beyond the border a thousand miles or more,
A wilderness of drifting snows behind us and before;
Just a bunch of U. S. doughboys, hollow-eyed from march and fight,
For you bet we all kept busy with Sitting Bull in sight,
And our old buzz-saw he'd captured never let us sleep too late
When he used it as a war-drum around Christmas, '68!
I remember well that morning, it was twenty-four below,