Far away from the din of the city,
I dwell on the prairie alone,
With no one to praise or to pity,
And all the broad earth for my own,
The fields to allure me to labour,
The shanty to shelter my sleep,
A league and a half to a neighbour —
And Collie to watch if I weep.

Yes, this is my place of probation,
Though woefully windy and bare;
I am lord of my own habitation,
I mock at the meaning of care;
For here, on the edge of creation,
Lies, far as the vision can fling,
A kingdom that's fit for a nation—
A kingdom — and I am the king!

The grasses aglare in the morning
With crystalline radiance shine;
The dew-drops are jewels adorning,
Are jewels — and the jewels are mine;
The heat of the sun when it shineth,
The wet of the wind when it rains,
Are balm to the heart that repineth —
The Medicine-men of the plains!

I follow the plough in the breaking,
I tap the rich treasures of Time —
The treasure is here for the taking,
And taking it isn't a crime;
I ride on the rack or the reaper
To harvest the fruit of my hand,
And daily I know that the deeper
I 'm rooting my soul in the land.

They say there is wealth in the doing,
That royal and rich are the gains,
But 'tisn't the wealth I am wooing
So much as the life of the plains;
For here in the latter-day morning,
Where Time to Eternity clings,
Midwife to a breed in the horning,
I behold the Beginnings of Things!

When, reckless of time and of trouble,
I watch till the water-fowl comes,
Or, picking my steps in the stubble,
I steal where the prairie-hen drums;
When shooting the wolf in the brushes,
Or spearing the pike in the stream,
Or potting the crane in the rushes —
Ambition seems only a dream.

When darkness envelops creation,
And shadows lie deep on the plain,
I sit in my rude habitation
And ponder my childhood again;
Then voices come out of the distance,
Far voices from over the sea,
They call from the depths of existence —
I know they are calling to me!

The voices of song and of motion,
The voices of laughter and light,
They 're calling from over the ocean —
Oh, God ! could I answer to-night!
The voices of friend and of lover,
The voices I knew in the past —
I turn to my pallet to smother
The thoughts that have found me at last!
. . . . . . . . . .
Greater than the measure of the heroes of renown,
He is building for the future, and no hand can hold him down;
Though they count him but a common man, he holds the Outer Gate,
And posterity will own him as the father of the State.