Oh, the land it was me cradle, an' the land ull be me grave;
'Twas me mother, an' me mistress, an' me tyrant, and' me slave.
Tho' it's fickle with its favours, an' it varies in its wage,
It'll have to be me stan'-by in me old, old age.

By gum, I'm gettin' old, I am!
An' as I ses, las' week, to Sam --
               That's Sam McQueen,
That owns the pace 'tween mine an' Jones --
Or rather, when I say he owns
               The place I mean
He rents it, like, frum off the State;
An' that's the same at any rate --
               He pays no rent:
Fer, same as me, an' all the lot
Of cockies here, he hasn't got
               A blessed cent.
Much less arrears an' things to spare
When all his house'old debts are square
               Down at the store.
In fact, most years when we have sold
The crop, we find the debt, all told,
               A trifle more.

Ole Sam an' me, we've had our groan,
When we have reaped not where we've sown,
               We've railed an' cried;
But now we're hardened, him an' me,
An' preach the good ole policy
               Of let it slide.
But tho' I hold it ain't no use,
There's times when Sam ull get the blues
               An' pitches tales
Of things that might have been, but ain't;
'Twould try the temper of a saint --
               The way he rails,
At times, about his dearth of tin,
An' how he might have been well in
               Had he been wise.
Fer we have struck some payin' deals,
An' had our twenty bushel yeil's,
               An' made a rise;
But if we acted spen'thrift then,
An' if those times don't come again,
               What use to damn
Our foolishness of those days, now?
The chance is gone - well, let it go;
               So I ses, "Sam --

"The land it was me cradle, an' the land ull be me grave;
It might uv been my forchune if I'd sense enough to save.
Tho' 'tis fickle with its favours, an' it varies in its wage,
It ull have to be me stan'-by in me old, old age."

"C. J. D."
The Critic, 5 September 1903, p31