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On Platte the rocks like battlements, Were towering tall and high;The frightened elk and antelope Before our trains would fly.
And herds of buffalo appear— On either side they stand;Far as our telescope could reach, One thick and clustering band.
O'er sinking sands and barren plains, Our frantic teams would bound—While some were wounded, others slain, Mid wild terrific sound.
And in these lone and silent dells The winds were whispering low;And moaning to the Pilgrims, tell Their by-gone tales of woe.
Deserted on those mountains wild, No ear to hear his cry—Near by a spring, on a rude bluff, They laid poor Scott to die.
