I must die within sight of the mountains
Those rippling shoulders of God
Lowered down to the mournful strains
Of a fiddler on fresh turned sod.
Where the blush of the blooming redbud
Freckles the springtime cheeks
And the clouds that loosed a flashflood
Cling to coves and ridges for weeks.
Lay me down beneath some ground
Where barefoot children dance
With mongrel pups and an old coon hound
And love first takes a chance.
