The West Wind is more of the tom-boy style.
She lives where the mountains rise.
She pushes the bright-hued clouds across
The beautiful sunset skies.
The journey that’s taken by the Sun
Is always toward her domain,
And she’s proud to display her country's charms,
Though rugged, or rough and plain.
She loves the great Prairies’ broad expanse,
Where the antelopes graze and roam.
She fans the cook-fires round the door
Of the Indian’s wigwam home.
She sleeps on the highest of mountain-peaks,
Where man yet has never trod,—
Where rocks stand erect instead of trees,
Where are ledges instead of sod.
She dresses in careless tom-boy style,
Her cloak flapping here and there,
With a raw-hide girdle around her waist
And a wealth of long flowing hair.
She eats the sweet clovers from river-banks,
She drinks from the bright cascades,
And certainly is the queen of all
Such happy-go-lucky maids.
