In this Country of the free.
If you question Farmers why this land depression,
Why this weary, bitter cry
You will hear their quick and ever sad expression,
We are being ruined, they reply.
We’ve toil’d against successive cloudy seasons
And competed with the trade of every clime,
Whilst Manufacture for her obvious reasons
And her labour market filled from time to time,
Cares naught for Agriculture, O my brothers,