When it's twilight on the trail, And I jog along, The world is like a dream And the ripple of the stream is my song . . . When it's twilight on the trail, And I rest once more, My ceiling is the sky And the grass on which I lie is my floor . . . Never ever have a nickel in my jeans, Never ever have a debt to pay, Still I understand what real contentment means, Guess I was born that way . . . When it's twilight on the trail, And my voice is still, Please plant this heart of mine Underneath the lonesome pine on the hill . . . ( Underneath the lonesome pine on the hill . . . ) When it's twilight on the trail . . .
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