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MONTANA (Ruth Byrd / Harold Weeks, 1921) For many a year, from the land I hold dear, I've wandered unhappy, alone; and now at the end, I haven't a friend, and never a place to call home; but often I see, in dreams dear to me, that long ago land that I knew, the Queen of the earth, the land of my birth, Montana, Montana, it's you. I try to recall and to picture it all, the wonders I knew as a child; the sweep of the plain, the gold of the grain, the ridges brush tangled and wild; and oft times I try to understand why I bartered the old for the new; a prodigal son, my wandering done, Montana, I'm coming to you. Oh I long, how I long for Montana, and the sweet scent of pine in the air, where the lark every evening sings melodies rare, to the sage brush and sweet prickly pear. Oh I long, how I long for Montana, when the sinking sun sets all aglow; in the heart of the Rockies, the land of my dreams, it is there that my heart longs to go.

    


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