Mountain Mandolin

Its mournful melodies come drifting Through the valley and the glen, Those last haunting , misting memories Of the mountain mandolin. A jaunty jew’s-harp joins along now Like a lonesome loud amen, While a fiddle fades and then rises With that mountain mandolin. Then the bass moans of an old cowboy Who in rage shot his best friend, As that band of long ago plays on Like soft thunder in the wind. Yet, one by one those cowboys drift off As we still remember when And we join that dying orchestra Lead by that mountain mandolin.