Play a Symphony for all the birds that fly and,
all the trees spreading boughs to the sky.
Play a Symphony for fallen colors by
the autumn winds that have come once again.

	You can play it if you try, 
	add your part if you might
	Few have heart enough to try. Oh why
	does the city pull your spirit down from flight?

Hear the Symphony and softly fallen scree that,
rolls in rhythm with the roar of the streams.
Hear the Symphony that, drops her harmonies in,
pools that glisten with the sun’s growing gleam.

	You can stay here if you like.
	I will hold you through the night.
	Together we shall be the melody line, 
	Leading our Symphony through time

Love is simply a two-part Symphony where,
we can join and be blended as one.
Birds and boughing trees make background harmonies while,
The colors change around our mountains and streams.

	You can stay here, if you like.
	We’ll partake in lovers rites.
	Together we shall be the melody line.
	Leading our Symphony through time.

	Leading our Symphony through time.

Do you recall the fall of the great western frontier
And its valiant stand beneath the weight of man?
Now the buffalo are gone and the grizzly’s time is near
‘Cause his forest has been stripped to clear the land.

In a short two hundred years of blood and sweat-stained tears
We’ve laid the tracks now stretched from sea to sea.
Is all we have to show a dollar and the hoe
With which we ripped the earth and spilled her mysteries?

	May Alaska Long Live On
	Her freedom be our song for all time
	Let her rivers and her caribou run free
	Red salmon ever spawn
	Awake to a new dawn
	Where midnight sun displays her harmony

We here-tell of a place and pray it be a base
For a new outlook, a fresh approach to be
Where man can be a friend, to never crack or bend
Fragile bones of arc-tic-ology.

	May Alaska Long Live On
	Her freedom be our song for all time
	Let her rivers and her caribou run free
	Red salmon ever spawn
	Awake to a new dawn
	Where midnight sun displays her harmony

	Where midnight sun displays her harmony

	Hear midnight sun play her harmony

When the sun comes up and the clock strikes eight, 
there’s a restlessness on a young boy’s face.
The dawn has softly spoken.
It’s time to rise and walk downstairs
To where her parlour lies with her picture frames 
telling stories of her heartfelt lanes.
In the life and times she treasured, 
a gold vein to her soul.

	And there are overtones In Granny’s House, 
	in the halls and in each corner.
	There is love that we can’t live without. 
	Her hand is on my shoulder.
	For the chill is mine when I hear her bell-like chimes.
	We’re alive in newborn time.

With the squeaking of the kitchen door, 
I hear the age of songs before.
Her daughters fill the hollows.
There is movement in each band of light that radiates 
From their smooth and lovely walking ‘cross the floor.
There are goals to be accomplished. 
There is gold forevermore.

	And there are overtones In Granny’s House, 
	in the halls and in each corner.
	There is love that we can’t live without. 
	Her hand is on our shoulder.
	For the chill is mine when I hear her bell-like chimes.
	We’re alive in newborn time.

	And there are overtones In Granny’s House, 
	in the halls and in each corner.
	There is love that we can’t live without. 
	Her hand is on our shoulders.
	For the chill is mine when I hear her clock strike nine.
	We’re alive in newborn time.

	We’re alive in newborn time.

I.  PROLOGUE
In a time before the white man on a land of golden sun
In the Shadow of Mt. Lassen where the Mill and Deer Creeks run.
There lived a people who were nurtured by the gift of snow and rain
Through the seasons they went walking from the foothills to the plains.
	
The salmon and the grizzly, big meadows and clear streams
Survived a thousand years with them and on into a dream,
And through the nightmare that had followed a nation doomed to die
By the guns that followed golden dreams in 1849.

II.  GOING TO CALIFORNIA
	"I’m gonna join a wagon train. Gonna go to California,
	To stake my claim and homestead out beneath the golden sun.
	There’s grass and there is game.
	There are streams in California
	For no one but the grizzly and the salmon on the run."

	"So load your guns and grain, we’ll plant seeds in California.
	We’ll weed out all of the barriers defying our new ways,
	‘Cause the Lord is on our side, He is there in California.
	He gave this wondrous land to us, in taking we’ll abide."

		"And we’ll have the gold to spend.
		And tools to build the towns.
		There are means to better ends
		So our children won’t be down."

	"Ya better hurry up and leave. Everyone’s in California!
	Our families are tilling up the fertile valley green.
	But I hear there’s still some room.  It’s the last in California
	By the fringe of the foothills near the Mill and Deer Creek streams."

		"But we’ll have to first contend with the savage Indian.
		They dare to fight refusing our new ways.
		And our loved ones we defend, with honor and again
		The game should be an easy one to play.  Yee ha!"

III.  CONFLICT:  1857-1870
O’er the valley rolled a shadow dark, sweeping like a cloud.
And it rained a time of hunger and cannoned rifles loud.
For the salmon run diminished in the streams of murky silt
From the gold mine operations way far up in the hills.

	By '57, famine turned their men to kill.
	Ranchers' cattle replaced salmon in the hills.
	A people’s destiny was on a path to the unknown,
	Once the hunters, now the hunted in their home.

	Thrice the army galloped up to do the deed.
	But the records show not one to their guns’ greed.
	The nasty task would be left up to hairy men
	Who formed the Oroville Guards and had the time to spend.

		But then, time to spend was not enough and the task at first too tough
		For the vigilante outlaws from the valley floor.
		So they galloped down and hired on Hiram Good and Anderson
		To lead them to the triumphs of the Yahi war,

	Good and Anderson soon learned the Yahi mind,
	Stalking Yahi who lay sleeping in the blind.
	Women screamed and ran from guns they could not see.
	Camp by camp they fell through 1870.

IV.  ISHI’S SONG
			It seems like a dream, oh but I can remember
			My kin and my people, our clear water streams.
			When I was a child, the ways of the Yahi
			Were given and became part of me.

			Now, I’m all alone in the hills of my homeland.
			The shadows of loved ones are whispering low.
			They’ve gone with the wolf, with the bear and the eagle.
			I’m leaving this shadowland, "You stay... I go."

V.  EPILOGUE
In a time before the white man on a land of golden sun
In the Shadow of Mt. Lassen where the Mill and Deer Creeks run
There lived a people who were nurtured by the gift of snow and rain
Through the seasons they went walking from the foothills to the plains.

Though their voices are now silenced, their spirit still remains
‘Round the Shadow of Mt. Lassen... in the foothills and the plains.

A child sits beside a stream that flows to the Sound
Awaiting arrival of the fish that swam down the waters in an earlier year
When cedars brushed the sky and the land was in line with God.

Alone there he sits and then thinks to himself...
Where is that Heaven and what is a Hell?
Is Hell the state which we have made?
By polluting our waters, the miracle fades.

	And behold, the choices are made
	Through the actions displayed.
	I pray there will be a Legacy
	That our children can hold
	And pass to their own when they die.

A child sits beside a stream that flows to the Sound
Awaiting arrival of the fish that swam down the waters in an earlier year
When cedars brushed the sky and the land was in line with God.

When cedars brushed the sky and the land was in line with God.

Indian Summer’s over now.  I’ve taken to the hills,
Staring through the glowing logs that undermine the chill
That accompanies my leaving to a distant land and time,
Through whipping rains that slap the shields covering my eyes.
 	You’re my Memory Above the Timberline.
 
You are like a summer’s day that warms one to the soul.
You are as the archer’s eye is drawn on from the bow.
Lover, to the air, I will swear, we never will unbind.
Though mountain range and open plain may separate our lives,
 	You’re my Memory Above the Timberline.
 
 		Fortune has a place for those who plan and see dreams through.
 		Failure is amused by those who wander ‘round confused.
 		Destiny is shaped by those who blaze the trail true.
 		Faith can keep our prayers aloft beaming towards the blue.
 
There will come a day when my body’s old and gray.
The inner voice within me will bubble out and say,
I’ve enjoyed the seaport’s pleasures with its women, song and wine.
But, you know, they never ever granted peace of mind,
 	Like those Memories Above the Timberline.
 
 	You’re my Memory Above the Timberline.

Well, I took the train to this ole farm when I was only three.
Saddles blazing in the sun, I cried until I’d sleep.
When I was four, I kicked a mare to throw her into gear.
But Whoa! Whoa!  She bolted off and threw me on my ear.
 
 	I vaguely remember taggin’ to the barn
 	On the heels of my cousins and sisters on the farm.
 	And maybe it was gettin’ kicked that keeps me hangin’ on
 	To my youth in California on Miracle Pony Farm.
 
Well, she sits a mile off 99 within the San Joaquin,
Anchored there by walnut trees, ten acres clean and green.
In the pasture there are ponies, plenty there to ride
I recall a hundred mares with their babies at their sides.
 
 	I grew up strong by milking goats and helping with the chores,
 	Collecting bits of wisdom from Ernie, Peg and Florence.
 	When we were down there we fell free from danger and all harm
 	Like a child in California on Miracle Pony Farm.
 
 		But now, oh now, it is almost gone 
 		my boyhood dreams have faded in the sun
 		Next year around this time, I’ll be twenty-one
 		With my livin’ on the way, 
 		But I’ll still stop and say that...
 
I love your pasture and your ponies, swing in your walnut trees
And buttered sweet corn with the kin in evening’s summer breeze.
The time I spent upon that ranch I’ll hold close till I’m old.
I wouldn’t trade an hour for bricks of solid gold.
 
 	‘Cause I found something gold can’t buy, few people ever know.
 	The brand of love found on the farm, the seeds of nature sown.
 	And it’s that love that keeps me comin’ back and hangin’ on
 	To my youth in California on Miracle Pony Farm.
 
 	Is it that love that keeps me comin’ back and hangin’ on?
 	Or maybe it was getting’ kicked that keeps me hangin’ on!
 	To my youth in California on Miracle Pony Farm.

The wind has a way of performing the dreams
That the soul and the heart will conceive
As the last few short days play their songs in my mind,
I treasure each moment and scene.

It could not have been planned, it wasn’t foreseen,
But the wind has a way with some things
For now all emotion has tumbled to one
With the two of us caught in between.

	And Part of My Heart wants to stay with you,
	And Part of My Heart wants to leave.
	But the largest Part of My Heart wants to start
	A love in which I can believe.

My love on the roll has been hot and been cold
I’ve lost everything I’ve bet on,
Be it losing my sight or ignoring the light
That rises each morning with dawn.

		And I couldn’t imagine a sunrise
		As bright as the one spent with thee.
		Now Part of My Heart wants to stay with you
		And Part of My Heart wants to flee.

	Yes Part of My Heart wants to stay with you,
	And Part of My Heart wants to leave.
	But the largest Part of My Heart wants to start
	A love in which I can believe.

	A love in which I can believe.

When I was just a baby boy not even four feet tall
I would watch those football games on TV in the fall.
When I was just a husky pup, not knowin’ where to turn
And all games with pals and gals were lessons to be learned.
 
I grew up quick.  I grew up tall. I learned those lessons well.
In the class and on the field, a Husky pup who rebelled.
When I up and looked around, I saw Montana State
But I chose the U-Dub Huskies ‘cause roses were at stake.
 
 	And I wondered if I should’ve stayed back on the open range.
 	Where the summer brings a big blue sky and autumn brings her change.
 	But I know there’s not a football game at Big Sky or Great Falls
 	That can hold a light to the Pasadena... Free For All.
 
Well, the years rolled by and Washington was silent and so still.
And Husky fans begin to bark ‘cause New Year’s brought no kill.
The Trojans and the Bruins were the hot dogs on the rush,
The Huskies were left high and dry. Their meat had turned to mush.
 
 	And I wondered if I should’ve stayed back on the open range.
 	Where the summer brings a big blue sky and autumn brings her change.
 	But I know there’s not a football game at Big Sky or Great Falls
 	That can hold a light to the Pasadena... Free For All.
 
Now we’ve tumbled Troy and bared our fangs, and crushed the Berkeley Bears.
The Wolverines are now extinct or sleep'n in their lairs.
Us Husky dogs, we dang got down on January Two.
Some wise men say what we just did is just a sneak preview.
 
 	And I've stopped wonder'n if I should’ve stayed back on the open range.
 	Where the summer brings a big blue sky and autumn sings her change.
 	Cause I know there’s not a football game at Big Sky or Great Falls
 	That can hold a light to the Pasadena
 
 	Battle fight in Pasadena
 	Seattle’s ripe for a Pasadena ... Free For All
 
 	Free For All

Just as the orange sun breaks the plane between the dawn and day
On the Great Plains in The Last Best Place grow tender shoots of grain.
The children of a thousand years are rising once again
To hunt and fish and harvest what the Sun on Earth will send.
 
Up from the Ice Age to the New Age we’re somewhere in between.
We were skin-clad silent hunters but now we’re living proof of dreams
The only separation is time, the future ours to find
In The Last Best Place in the Universe,
 	The Last Best Place on Earth.
 
 		The Sun Loom of Creation 
 		has spun our heart a home,
 		Its layers intertwined with love, 
 		the Earth cannot be owned.
 
From the basins of the Big Sky through her womb her rivers run
We’re entrusted with a legacy passed Mother Earth to Sun.
Oh the mountain mists and the waterfalls in pools forever swirl.
In The Last Best Place in the Universe.
 	The Last Best Place in the world.
 
 		The Last Best Place on earth, 
 			where the Flag of freedom shines.
 		The Last Best Place on earth, 
            		forever will be mine.
 		The Last Best Place on earth.
   
 		The Last Best Place on earth.

This state in ’84 was yet to be born,
But her womb-held treasures drew in the swarms.
There were Irish immigrants, Germans, and Finns.
In the mines they worked and struggled within.

With a nose for profit and treasure-filled veins,
William Andrews Clark was as sharp as they came.
But not to be outdone by Butte’s favorite son,
Marcus Daly founded Anaconda.

	Those were the days, smelters ablaze
	Those were the days of our state’s first spring.
	Those were the days.  These are the ways
	Of the men who ruled When Copper was King.

From the earth poured ore and treasures rose high
As the green-backed copper kings fought for the rights.
Who would rise to dominate?  Who would emerge?
The richest power fist on mountain earth.

	Those were the days, smelters ablaze
	Those were the days of our state’s first spring.
	Those were the days.  These are the ways
	Of the men who ruled When Copper was King.

From the loom of millionaires statehood was spun.
Within her shadow a capital won.
And when the booze stopped flowing and votes were all bought...
Anaconda’s dream fell to Helena.

	Those were the days, smelters ablaze
	Those were the days of our state’s first spring.
	Those were the days.  These are the ways
	Of the men who ruled When Copper was King.

	The men who ruled When Copper was King.

	The men who ruled When Copper was King.

The fisherman wakes at 4:00 a.m. without a clock alarm
He knows not to let the nets he set fall victim to day’s harm
The dawning air is chilly when the sun's below the rise
His yawning walk delivers him directly to lakeside.
 	And he crosses depths where his nets set up pulls them to his grasp.
 	He removes the aqua harvest. The lake is rippled glass...
 
With slow but timeless certainty the sun burst o’er Divide
Granting strength and vision to the caps now dancing at his side.
They sparkle bright like diamond gold on aqua blue terrain.
He’s a Farmer of the Waters, his boat, a plow on plain.

 	And he rows in right on heavy with a harvest from the blue.
 	His tubs are full and flopping with a food that’s native true.
 	I am proud to hold in memory a man as fine as you.
 	You’re a Farmer of the Waters, true and true.
 
The morning’s done soon as the sun is overhead and high.
The fish are in, all orders been now filled by you and wife.
With sharp and swift precision, blades are used and filets made.
How often did I think that not for any life you’d trade?
 
 	For as winter pulled your body down the spring brought life anew.
 	And time and time again you rose to cast your nets on blue
 	We are proud to hold in memory a man as fine as you.
 	You’re a Farmer of the Waters, true and true.

There are Farmers of the Waters plowing ‘cross the ocean plains
Whose fields will flood with topsoil with the rolling of the rains.
From the sandy beach at Waikiki to the lakes of Tennessee,
From the future to the past we know, the man from Galilee.
 
 	And they row in right on heavy with a harvest from the blue.
 	Their baskets full and flopping with a food that’s native true.
 	We are proud to hold in memory men as fine as you.
 	Farmers of the Waters, true and true.
 
 	Yes I am proud to hold in memory a man as fine as you.
 	You're a Farmer of the Waters true and true.
 
 	The fisherman woke at 4:00 a.m. 
 	The sun was on the rise...

Speak to me Grandma I’m alone in my thoughts
Speak to me Grandma You’re at home with the thought...
	There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide
	Through the valley of our old St. Mary
	You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got
	And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...
	Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

Speak to me Grandma, stories blossom in you
Speak to me Grandma legend blended with truth.
	And your words brushed a portrait for us
	In the Valley of our old St. Mary
	Your eyes were the light for us
	When our bodies couldn’t carry us beyond...
	Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

		You felt the buffalo go
		You heard the stagecoach roll
		You saw booming Altyn rise and fall
		You rode your pony upon 
		Moccasin Flat at century’s dawn
		The trails became roads 
		and the roads became old...
		We listened to the stories that you told.

		You wed a man from the north
		Then ten fine children came forth
		Alex still is your groom.
		You were the center of us.
		Still in our valley we trust
		The vision of St. Mary 
		appeared upon the lake
		And leaves me in this fast-closing wake.

Speak to me Grandma I’m alone in my thoughts
Speak to me Grandma You’re at home with the thought...
	There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide
	Through the valley of our old St. Mary
	You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got
	And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...
	Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

	There’s a wind blowing off the top of Divide
	Through the valley of our old St. Mary
	You have thrice earned the rest that you’ve got
	And the cross your fingers carry to beyond...
	Now, I really can’t believe that you’re gone.

	No I really can’t believe
	It’s so hard to imagine.

	I really don’t believe that you’re gone.