We met in a bar in old Montreal.
I swear I was just there for fun.
A graying old Cowboy from the U.S of A
And a pretty French girl on the run.

Where I come from you don't push a lady,
But her boyfriend was playing the fool.
He would not let her be, then he came on to me,
So I knocked him plumb off of that stool.

Well her hair was as black as a Pennsylvania coal seam,
That's been cleansed by a cold mountain mist.
Her breath was a treat, pure mowed clover sweet,
And those red lips just begged to be kissed.

I spoke to her, but I ain't no Frenchy
And her English would not fill one line.
So I hung around that bar until midnight
Then left with her soft hand in mine.

Well the days just pushed past; soon vacation was done.
I had burned all my time and my luck.
So I packed up my gear and I headed back West,
And left her, asleep, in my truck.

Any damned fool could see, she was too young for me,
We're most a full generation apart.
And my head said, "Danny, you best let her be!"
But there's no account books in the heart.

Well she cried when she first saw them Rockies,
Then she laughed when she helped birth a foal.
Her soft hand was warm as a puppy,
And my heart was still empty and cold.

Winter nights we'd just sit by our fire
And I'd brush her dark hair with my hand.
She'd sing soft as them sparks carried higher
French love songs, I could not comprehend.

She gave me two winters, one spring and one fall,
One summer all filled with pure bliss.
And we learned to say love without speaking at all,
While she melted my soul with each kiss.

Well, she left me her picture and that silver hairbrush
And she wept when she said her goodbye.
I just leaned gainst my truck as her bus headed East
And I cussed, cause I'm too old to cry.

She still writes me, of course I can't read it
And maybe, that's all for the best.
For pretty French girls belong to Quebec.
Old Cowboys, belong to the west.