lirik lagu richard mitchley - october on the sheep range by arthur chapman

there ain’t no leaves to turn to gold—
there ain’t a tree in sight—
in other ways the herder’s told
october’s come, all right

jest like ten thousand souls, all lost
the wind howls—ain’t it nice!—
the water~hole is froze acrost
with crinkly~crackly ice

the sheep bed down before the sun
has hit the rim of hills;
the prairie wolves are on the run
to make their nightly k!lls

but kyards are sayin’, “solitaire,”
the bacon’s fryin’ prime;
the old sheep wagon’s free from care
in late october time

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