Little Tim Trotter has heard the long call
And has answered with joy and surprise,
And the thoughts and the things that are hid from us all
To-day are revealed to his eyes;
And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd,
Or in camp with his Indians brave;
But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a word
Through the mound of a little green grave.
He farmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well;
There were seasons when the yield was rather small,
But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell,
And a little to his credit in the fall;
But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eye
Where the City flashed its glamour on the stranger passing by;
He was sick of hogs and cattle—he was sick of barn and sty,
And the City sucked him in.
He was doing homestead duties—he was in his second year,
And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors;
He'd a neighbor in the township—and they called that pretty near,
And he only had to eat and do the chores;
Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own;
He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally gramophone" . . .
He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone,
And the City sucked him in.
He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs;
He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk;
And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegs
While they smoked and [wished] they didn't have to work;
He was tired of tasting butter that he didn't dare condemn,
He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them,
And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M.,
And the City sucked him in.
He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go,
And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the "dead";
He was editor and devil, he was master of the show,
And the Union had no halter on his head;
But he couldn't raise his circulation over twenty quires,
He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires,
He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars,
And the City sucked him in.
He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot;
He'd a client every once-awhile or so;
He drove into the country when the summer days were hot,
Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow;
He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills,
But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills;
He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills,
And the City sucked him in.
He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodox
Though his salary was less than he was worth,
He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks,
And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth;
But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship,
And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip;
And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip,
And the City sucked him in.