What path is left for you to tread
When hunger-wolves are slinking near--
Do you not know the West is dead?
The "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed
Along the trails of yesteryear--
What path is left for you to tread?
Your fathers, golden sunsets led
To virgin prairies wide and clear--
Do you not know the West is dead?
Now dismal cities rise instead
And freedom is not there nor here--
What path is left for you to tread?
Your fathers' world, for which they bled,
Is fenced and settled far and near--
Do you not know the West is dead?
Your fathers gained a crust of bread,
Their bones bleach on the lost frontier;
What path is left for you to tread--
Do you not know the West is dead?