(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.