October on the Sheep Range by Arthur Chapman

Lyrics

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 kills But kyards are sayin', "Solitaire," The bacon's fryin' prime; The old sheep wagon's free from care In late October time