On a trial drive from Texas, down by the Rio Grande,
We drove past the Medina to a dry and bitter land
Where before the longhorns streamed along, grass range 
once was there.
Now we herded them in silence with a feeling of 
despair!
The day was hot...the wind was dry, and the mesquite 
barred the way.
The maguey and the cactus tried to drain our lives 
away.
We came up to a ranch house dying in the desert sun,
Looked the old spread over and couldn't see anyone.
Then from the ranch house a man stepped out. He was old 
beyond his years...
A viejo caballero whose eyes filled up with tears.
"I have nothing for you, Senores," he said. "My 
hacienda's empty now.
There was a time..." He shook his head and gave a 
gentle bow.
I asked him why he'd stayed on in a place where hope 
was dead.
He looked up at me and his face grew soft, and this is 
what he said:
"Mis Raices Estain Aqui!...
My Roots Are Buried Here!"
Now, I've punched cattle from the Rio Grande to the 
cold Montana plains,
And I've pushed 'em through New Mexico and through 
Arizona rains.
I've seen ranchers hanging on when it's been forty-five 
below--
And the thought's always crossed my mind as to why they 
just don't go
To a place where life is easier and where nature's not 
so hard...
And then the past comes floating back, and I'm in that 
viejo's yard.
I think of him and his quiet pride and of the things 
that he has done,
And I know that if men battle back at the snow or the 
broiling sun,
They'll live their responsiblities to the land that 
they love best.
America will proudly stand and in her vigil will not 
rest,
For no matter what may lie ahead, the answer's loud and 
clear:
"Mis Raices Estain Aqui!...
My Roots Are Buried Here!"