Music on the
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© 1998, Michael S. Robinson
When the trail dust has settled
and the fire's burnin' bright,
and a dyin' red's transformed
into the purple of the night...
the pale moon's a risin'
an' that great big dipper dips,
as I take my ol' harmonica
and press it to my lips.
There are strains of that Amazing Grace an' Texas' Yellow Rose,
an' wails of eerie canyons, where the wind, Mariah, blows.
That 'berry Roan's a buckin' through a diamond-studded sky--
the same sky we sat under, as we said our last goodbye.
Blue Shadows on the Trail dance, as music drifts and slips,
while I'm wishin' this harmonica was you, pressed to my lips.
If you're sittin' there in Denver,
and the wind's out of the West,
and a melody comes driftin'
'cross the mountain's moonlit crest,
it's a lonely, sad reminder
of a love we oughta share.
Still my sweetheart of the rockies,
snap your fingers, I'd be there.
Now I'm lyin' in my bedroll,
an' the fire's dyin' fast,
an' I'm thinkin' love's a mem'ry
of a dream that's come and passed.
But some hoof beats on the trail
stop a loop away from me,
an' the fire's final flicker shows
that you've come back to me.
There are strains of that Amazing Grace an' Texas' Yellow Rose,
an' wails of eerie canyons, where the wind, Mariah, blows.
That 'berry Roan's a buckin' through a diamond-studded sky--
as we pledge, beneath the smilin' moon, we'll never say goodbye.
Blue Shadows on the Trail dance, as music drifts and slips,
an' it's you, not my harmonica, I'm pressin' to my lips.
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