The sad low moan of a turtle dove
Comes from a distant hill;
And the sighing sound of a gentle breeze
But no music of the rill;
For I am far from the babbling brook,
A sandhill claim I own;
The yucca and the cactus plant
Are natives of my home.
The rattlesnake is a native too,
And the coyote wild and shy;
At night I hear his yelping wail
As in my bed I lie.
In the cool still morn I hear the sound
Of the mother prairie hen
As she clucks and calls to her little ones
To hide at the approach of men,
And a little bird with snow white wings
Alights on a post near my door
And sits unafraid as he warbles and sings
While the sunshine gleams on my floor.
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