Montana
Composer(s): Ruth Byrd; Harold Weeks



For many a year, from the land I hold dear 
I've wandered unhappy, alone 
and now at the end, I haven't a friend 
and never a place to call home 
but often I see, in dreams dear to me 
that long ago land that I knew 
the Queen of the earth, the land of my birth 
Montana, Montana, it's you

I try to recall and to picture it all 
the wonders I knew as a child 
the sweep of the plain, the gold of the grain 
the ridges brush tangled and wild 
and oft times I try to understand why I bartered the old for the new 
a prodigal son, my wandering done 
Montana, I'm coming to you

Oh I long, how I long for Montana 
and the sweet scent of pine in the air 
where the lark every evening sings melodies rare 
to the sage brush and sweet prickly pear 
Oh I long, how I long for Montana 
when the sinking sun sets all aglow 
in the heart of the Rockies, the land of my dreams
it is there that my heart longs to go