There is a young cowboy,
he lives on the range.
His horse and his cattle are his only companions.
He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons,
waiting for summer,
his pastures to change.

And as the moon rises, he sits by his fire,
thinking about women,
and glasses of beer.
And closing his eyes as the doggies retire,
he sings out a song which is soft, but it's clear,
as if maybe someone could hear.

"Goodnight, you moonlight ladies.
Rock-a-bye sweet baby James.
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose,
won't you let me go down in my dreams,
and rock-a-bye sweet baby James."

Now the first of December, was covered with snow.
So was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston.
Lord, the Berkshires seemed dream-like
on account of that frosting,
with ten miles behind me, and ten thousand more to go.

There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway,
a song that they sing when they take to the sea,
a song that they sing of their home in the sky,
maybe you can believe it, if it helps you to sleep,
but singing works fine for me.

"So, goodnight, moonlight ladies.
And rock-a-bye sweet baby James.
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose,
won't you let me go down in my dreams,
and rock-a-bye sweet baby James."

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