The words came low and mournfully
From the cold, pale lips of a youth who lay
On his dying couch at the close o’ day.
He had wasted and pined till o’er his brow
The shadows o’ death were gath’ring now,
And he thought of his home and breathed a sigh
As the cowboys came round to see him die.
Oh, bury me out on the lone prairee,
In a narrow grave just six by three,
Where the wild coyotes will howl o’er me;