It was a funeral on the prairie, all his children gathered round Put him in a horse drawn wagon, drove him into town In the dark of February snow covered up the ground. In a pioneer church made out of sod we sang A Mighty Fortress Is Our God
He was born in 1898 when the plains burned red and green To God fearing pilgrim parents, the twelfth kid of thirteen. They broke up that ground yard by yard with a mule and an oxen team Now we're burying him out on the lone prairie where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free.
Back at the house we pushed that big oak table against the wall Made a fire in the cast iron cook stove, made room for one and all The children and grandchildren piling snow boots in the hall The women worked like an oiled machine; the coffee boiled and the kettle screamed
Then the old folks took to telling tales of back when they were young And it weren't too long before that four string banjo began to strum Mom played the fiddle and my Uncle Lars played his accordion The old farmers cried in their flannel sleeves when we sang that song from the old country
That was long ago and as the years go by I still forget he's gone But I look out on the open plains and I know his soul lives on He's the red sky mirrored on the lake, he's the first cold light of dawn He's a coyote's wail, he's a winter storm, he's the August wind blowing through the cornTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
