A longing in the young man’s face,

A certain look in his eye,

A shadowed glimpse of yesteryear,

My, how the time does fly.


A Cowboy dreams of Utah,

When the grass grew shoulder high,

With acres far beyond the gaze,

And the mule deer passing by.


Somehow the dreams are shattered

As men gain greater power,

Diminish life as we have known,

To face the final hour.


Hark, we feel the Indians’ plight,

As policies overtake,

Robbed and stripped of freedoms, 

Like a powerful, moving snake.


Little by little, the Cowboys’ dream,

Is replaced by stringent rule,

While silently he hangs his spurs,

But the Cowboy is no man’s fool.


He still dreams of our fair Utah,

When the grass grew shoulder high,

And as long as he can ride the range,

The Cowboy will never die.