With rocky soil and stunted spruce and pine,
With scarce a wigwam or a ranger's hearth,
We left untilled, and deemed of little worth;
The petals of this desert rose unfold,
When man discovers mines of yellow gold.
"Where is the boundary line?" is now the cry.
Each stakes his claim and gives his reason why;
One sought an exit to the main highway,
The other closed the gates and gained the day
In custom duties on the shining ore,