Long before the sun comes up the camp begins to stir
Complaining horse and oxen voices rise
Salt pork sizzles in the pan on buffalo chip fires
Mothers rub the sleep from sleepless eyes
The creak of harness leather and occasional cuss word
Begin to fill the quiet morning air
And in the East the first rays of the sun will now appear
They remember that they once had lives back there
It seems they’ve been forever on this labored trail of pain
While death and sickness follow right along
But still they rise each morning and push west for one more day
They’re bound to find a place where they belong
A new life in the West is what these pilgrims long to build
The Conestogas hold all that they own
In one, the prize possession is the bags of seeds they’ll sow
Another wagon leads a fine stud roan
The Scout turns weathered eyes toward the distant mountain pass
And hopes they make it through before the snows
Their progress might be good today. Sometimes they have some luck.
But what lies further on, not one man knows
Up on a hill not far away a Cheyenne warrior waits
And watches as the train begins to move
He wonders why so many Whites press on despite their fears
What drives them so? What do they try to prove?
He turns his eyes and pony from the band of crazy ones
And rides away to greet the blazing dawn
And down below the train of souls will slowly start to move
They know they have no choice but to push on
And so it went, year after year, the wagon trains moved through
Some sadly paid the price with all they had
Their iron-willed spirit drove them on to start their lives anew
A tale of triumph, and yet, somehow sad
