We found him there on the Desert,
At the end of the trail where he died,
With his old gray head on a boulder,
With an empty canteen by his side.

Tenderly we laid him
In a shallow grave to rest,
His tattered coat for a pillow,
With hands across his breast.

Who he was, or where he came from,
Never will be known;
For the desert keeps her secrets,
When she has claimed her own.