THERE is a mother, legend runs, Of mothers quite the best, Who boasts ten million sturdy sons 'Twixt plain and mountain crest; She gives of wealth in goodly store, She gives abounding health — and, more, She opens wide Contentment's door — Her name is Mother West. Beneath the blazing stars, low-swung, Where eagles make their nest, Her hardy boys to crags have clung And faced death with a jest; And on the cattle-dotted plain, Where ranch lights now gleam through the rain, Right cheerily her sons have lain And died for Mother West. For she a mystic spell has laid Upon the human breast; To break her bonds men have essayed, But well they stand the test; For every pulsing heart she claims, And every mind, with all its aims, Once yielding to her sunset flames Belongs to Mother West. O thou, whose bounties never fail, We are thy children blest; To foreign shores we may set sail, Our pilot strange unrest; But still thy nestlings turn to thee — Thy hills, thy plains, thy mystery — And, at the last, from oversea Come home to Mother West. |