To the refugee huts of Vermillion
Or the sun-smitten Yankton stockade.
Small things to a Nation embattled,
But great to the pioneer band
Who are blazing the roads of the future
Through the wastes of a wilderness land.
We plod past the desolate coulées
In the sweltering afternoon heat.
While the far ridges shine in a waving blue line
Where the earth and the brazen sky meet.