"Speak not to her in blighting words
The blighting news you bear,
The cords of life might snap too soon,
So, comrade, have a care.
I am her only, cherished child,
But tell her that I died
Rejoicing that she taught me young
To take my country's side.
"But, comrade, there's one more,
She's gentle as a fawn;
She lives upon the sloping hill
That overlooks the lawn,
The lawn where I shall never more
Go forth with her in merry mood
To gather wild-wood flowers.
"Tell her when death was on my brow
And life receding fast,
Her looks, her form was with me then,
Were with me to the last.
On Buena Vista's bloody field
Tell her I dying lay,
And that I knew she thought of me
Some thousand miles away."
I love not Colorado
Where the faro table grows,
And down the desperado
The rippling Bourbon flows;
Nor seek I fair Montana
Of bowie-lunging fame;
The pistol ring of fair Wyoming
I leave to nobler game.
Sweet poker-haunted Kansas
In vain allures the eye;
The Nevada rough has charms enough
Yet its blandishments I fly.
Shall Arizona woo me
Where the meek Apache bides?
Or New Mexico where natives grow
With arrow-proof insides?
Nay, 'tis where the grizzlies wander
And the lonely diggers roam,
And the grim Chinese from the squatter flees
That I'll make my humble home.
I'll chase the wild tarantula
And the fierce cayote I'll dare,
And the locust grim, I'll battle him
In his native wildwood lair.