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586
THE OLD SCOUT'S LAMENT.
Over valley, hill and plain;
We fought him in the mountain top,
And fought him down again.
Those fighting days are over;
The Indian yell resounds
No more along the border;
Peace sends far sweeter sounds.
But we found great joy, old comrades,
To hear and make it die,
We won bright homes for gentle ones,
And now, our West, good-bye.
