It is long since we crept to our mothers and slept on our pillows of down.
For we sleep in the huts of the humble and we live on a sturdier fare;
And the music we hear is the rumble of thunders of earth and of air
Where the pine and the tamarack tumble and the pathway of progress prepare.
Yet this land is the land of the lover, the place for a love such as mine;
Oh, sweet is the scent of the clover, but strong is the heart of the pine;
Love’s cup in the town bubbles over, but here it is purple as wine.
We live and we love and we labor up here on a mightier scale;
To the north and the night we are neighbor, we are kin of the star and the gale;
The lightning it threats with its sabre, the northwind it stings with its hail,