by F.P. Livingston
Across the rolling, trackless plains
I see a vision as of old.
Aye, like a knight in armor girt,
As noble, free and quite as bold;
His flowing locks and massive brow
Proclaimed the gallant life he
passed
While tolling to prepare the way
For those who built an empire vast.
They called him Bill--
Just Buffalo Bill.
What were the thoughts that filled
his brain
While waiting for the final call?
Methinks he saw the blood-stained
trail,
The rifles flash, the red man’s fall.
The war-whoop and the massacre.
Ah God! His life was one great
fight.
To master man and elements,
To force the erring mortal right.
They called him Bill--
Just Buffalo Bill.
He loved the fellowship of man,
But on the veldt his fame was
earned;
On silent plain, on lonesome trail
Where drifting sand in summer
burned,
And winter chilled unto the bone,
By night, by day, he saw the star
That lifted him beyond his peers;
That made him first in peace or
war.
They called him Bill--
Just Buffalo Bill.
The last of all the famous scouts
That blazed the way across the
sand,
He led the van thru lands unknown,
Where now a hundred cities stand.
His princely mien, his kindly deeds,
Will long resound from hearth to
hearth.
Strange tales they’ll tell by fireside
Of mighty deeds and of his worth.
They called him Bill--
Just Buffalo Bill.
Excerpted from Buffalo Bill’s autobiography, Life and Adventures of Buffalo Bill
Published by John R. Stanton & Co., Chicago 1917
