Campfire Songs Texts:
I. Pioneers, O Pioneers! (excerpt) by Walt Whitman
Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? Did we stop discouraged nodding on our way?
Yet a padding hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
II. Joys of the Trail by Hamlin Garland
Do you fear the force of the wind, the slash of the rain?
Go face them and fight them—be savage again.
Go hungry and cold like a wolf—
Go wade like a crane.
The palms of your hands will thicken—
The skin of your forehead tan;
You’ll grow ragged and swarthy and weary,
But you’ll walk like a man!
III. The Prairie-Grass Dividing by Walt Whitman
The prairie grass dividing—its own odor breathing,
I demand of it the spiritual corresponding,
Demand the most copious and close companionship of men,
Demand the blades to rise of words, acts, beings,
Those of the open atmosphere, coarse, sunlit, fresh, nutritious,
Those that go their own gait, erect, stepping with freedom and command—leading, not following,
Those with never-quell’d audacity—those with sweet and lusty flesh, clear of taint choice
and chary of its love power,
Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents and Governors, as to say, Who are you?
Those of earth-born passion, simple, never constrained, never obedient,
Those of inland America.
IV. Missing the Trail (excerpt) by David Wagoner
(Use with permission from author)
Only a moment ago you were thinking of something
Different, the sky or yesterday or the wind,
But suddenly it’s yourself
Alone, strictly alone, having taken a wrong turn
Somewhere behind you, [missing the trail]*,
Bewildered, now uncertain
Whether to turn back, bear left or right, or flounder ahead
Stubbornly, breaking new ground out of pride or panic,
Or to raise your voice
Out of fear that screaming is the only universal language.
If you come to your senses, all six, taking your time,
The spot where you’re standing
Is your best hope. [...]
(*changed by composer)
V. Song of a Man About to Die in a Strange Land by Mary Austin
If I die here
In a strange land,
If I die
In a land I do not know,
Nevertheless, the thunder,
The rolling thunder will take me home.
If I die here, the wind,
The wind rushing over the prairie,
The wind will take me home.
The wind and the thunder
They are the same everywhere.
What does it matter then
If I die in a strange land.
VI. The Way West by John Haines
(Use with permission from author)
Maybe there’ll come a time again
when the dawn will find
us ready—the breakfast fires burned out
and banked with sand, their
remnant smoke curling up unstirred
by any wind; and the chill,
still dewy air will find us ready, the heavy
gear stowed and lashed,
the patched tents struck, the stock
roped in and hitched…
And one voice calls from a full belly, and
one hand ahead is lifted
and motioned forward—then shoulders
to yoke, buttocks to leather,
wood squeaking on wood, the wheel beginning
to roll, cries on the warming
air. And the way is down into
the valley, with grass,
to dust and running water, to buffalo dung
and the far hill,
before the sun drinks west.
