I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well, That You have made my freedom so complete; That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell, Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. Just let me live my life as I've begun And give me work that's open to the sky; Make me a pardner of the wind and sun, And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. Let me be easy on the man that's down; Let me be square and generous with all. I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town, But never let 'em say I'm mean or small! Make me as big and open as the plains, As honest as the hawse between my knees, Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. You know about the reasons that are hid. You understand the things that gall and fret; You know me better than my mother did. Just keep an eye on all that's done and said And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside, And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead; It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead. Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet And I whistle like the air was warm and blue, For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks, I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars, And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars. But the bright campfire light only dances for a night, While the home-fire burns forever clear and true, So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks, 'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you. Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun Had shot a charge of fire through my veins, And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and the fun 'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the plains. Ay! the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot, And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew, Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you, Good folks, Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you. Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran, And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of us all To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man. But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed; 'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard through, And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, Old folks, Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you.