When the last wayward robin twitters goodnight
And wings his way thru the dusk home to bed;
When the great silver-eye of the moon fastens white
And gazes down from his station o'er head;
As the flames of the campfire flicker and dance
On the last of the wood in its sight,
Then I, too, say my prayers and pull up my covers,
And bed down with my horse for the night.
Summer is glorious with her warmth and her run
Through the forested hills and the valleys of green,
As she closes the day in her crimson-beamed sun,
And welcomes the stars as they slip in between
The tall statues of trees, standing guard without gun,
Sheltering my campsite by calm, rippley stream;
And I whisper my thanks to Father and Son
For allowing this cowboy the pleasures to dream.