  O, give me a bit of the great outdoors Is all that I ask of you, Where I may do whatever I like And like whatever I do. Where the sky is the boundary up above And the earth is the measure below, And the trail starts on where the sun comes up And ends where the sun sinks low. Where the wind blows sweet as a baby’s breath, And the sun shines bright as its eyes, And the showers come and the showers go As the tears when the little one cries. And the brook runs merrily through the glade, Singing its gladdening song, And the pine trees murmur their soothing sighs, Still bearing that song along. Yes, carry me back to the lake’s white shores With its deer and its lily pad. Where the loon calls out into the moonbeams bright Through the mist on the waters sad. Let me hear the elk’s far cry As it sweeps through the forest deep, Where the silence hangs as over the dead At rest in eternal sleep. I’ll pitch my tent by some lonesome pine, By the rippling water’s edge, With the great outdoors as my garden, And the willows round as my hedge. And surrounded by pretty flowers, That perfume the gentle breeze, I’ll idle away the whole long day, In the shade of my old pine trees. And I’ll watch on yonder mountain The colors change with the day, And I’ll follow each shadow creeping So silently on its way. And then I’ll give thanks to God above And in gratitude I’ll pause, And I’ll love, not hate, each care that comes In that great big home—Outdoors. —FRANK L. OASTLER |
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