A lie to say,
"O my mountain has coal veins and beds to dig.
500 men with axes and they all dig for me." A lie to ssay,
"O my
river where mant fish do swim, half of the catch is mine when you
haul
your nets in." Never will he believe that his greed is a
blinding
ray. No devil or redeemer will cheat him. He'll take his gold to
where he's lying cold.
A lie to say, "O my mine gave a diamond as big as a fist."
But with every gem in his pocket, the jewels he has missed. A lie
to
say, "O my garden is growing taller by the day." He
only eats the
best and tosses the rest away. Never will he be believe that his
greed is a blinding ray. No devil or redeemer can cheat him. he'll
take his gold to where he's lying cold. Six deep in the grave.
Something is out of reach
something he wanted
something is out of reach
he's being taunted
something is out of reach
that he can' beg or steal nor can he buy
his oldest pain
and fear in life
there'll not be time
his oldest pain
and fear in life
there'll not be time
A lie to say "O my forest has trees that block the sun and
when I cut them down I don't answer to anyone." No, no,
never will he
believe that his greed is a blinding ray no devil or redeemer can
cheat
him. He'll take his gold where he's lying cold.
[ Spoken intro from: Women's Diaries of the Westward Journey (byLillian Schlissel) ]
"While the young folks were having their good times
some of the mothers were giving birth to their babies.
Three babies were born in our company that summer.
My cousin, Emily, gave birth to a son in Utah,
forty miles north of the Great Salt Lake one morning.
But the next morning she traveled on
'til noon when a stop was made and another child was born,
this time Susan Mollmeyer.
And gave the baby the name Alice Nevada."
Follow the typical signs, the hand-painted lines, down prairieroads.
Pass the lone church spire.
Pass the talking wire from where to who knows?
There's no way to divide the beauty of the sky from the wildwestern plains.
Where a man could drift, in legendary myth, by roaming overspaces.
The land was free and the price was right.
Dakota on the wall is a white-robed woman, broad yet maidenly.
Such power in her hand as she hails the wagon man's family.
I see Indians that crawl through this mural that recalls ourhistory.
Who were the homestead wives?
Who were the gold rush brides?
Does anybody know?
Do their works survive their yellow fever lives in the pages theywrote?
The land was free, yet it cost their lives.
In miner's lust for gold, a family's house was bought and sold,piece by piece.
A widow staked her claim on a dollar and his name, sopainfully.
In letters mailed back home her Eastern sisters
they would moan as they would read accounts of
madness, childbirth, loneliness and grief.