You can take your tales o' the heart that quails,
   To the life that's reapin' gloom,
To the man that frets with a crop of debts,
   For me own heart ain't got roomn.
Ther's a mournful pitch o' the ne'er-be-rich
   I've heard, but it ain't for me;
When me dream's come true, an' me cheques come thro',
   An' I'm free -- D'ye hear?  I'M FREE!

Ther' was always heaps o' promise in this land of touch-an'-go
   Since we struck it -- her an' me -- when we was young;
'Twas a land of broken promise -- never reap an' ever sow:
   Land of ev'ry grief a croakin' poet's sung.
Ther' was seasons when we hoped an' feared, despaired, an' hoped again;
   Ther's been times when from the start we knew our fate,
Ther's been others when our only hope was one September rain --
   Them's the times it never came or came too late.

But away with fears o' the hungry years!
   An' a laugh for care that's past;
Tho' your fancy plays with the rich, fat days,
   An' you dream while lean days last:
Tho' it helps you bear with a load o' care
   To be dreamin' dreams like that,
'Tis a sweeter tack for to hearken back
  To the lean when you've got the fat.

'Twas always struggle from the start -- a case of hand to mouth;
   A life in hope, an' hell of spirits quailed.
It was ever graft an' battle with the Bank an' with the drouth,
   Till the last year was the finish, if it failed.
An' it started full o' promise -- as it's mostly done afore,
   But I da'sn't hope for fear o' what I knew,
For I've learned to set no price on what to-morra' has in store,
   An' I looked to see it wither -- but it grew!

Then it's -- Ho! for wheat an' the reaper's beat,
   An' the click o' the buyer's scales,
An' the ring of gold when the crop is sold,
   An' a laugh for the heart that quails.
For the world is bright, an' the land's all right,
   An' the price is three an' three;
An' it's overflowed with a joyful load
   Is the heart o' the man that's free.

So it grew from March to April, an' from April into May,
   To September, when the anxious days commence;
An' we watched an' prayed, an' wondered would we reap, or cut for hay;
   An' it grew until it stood above the fence.
An' when the dawnin' hope began to crowd into the doubt,
   A croakin' neighbor came an' whispered "RUST!"
'Twas the one word I was dreadin', an' I turned an' laid him out,
   An' I rubbed his croakin' crow's-bill in the dust.

For a curse on blokes who sets an' croaks,
   An' mourns for good days past;
Ther's is always more such-like in store,
   An' it's come, by gum, at last!
You may toil an' sweat for to keep a debt --
   As it was long years with me,
But the load is light while the dream is bright,
   An' the dream's come true -- I'm free!

Then we put the reaper in it, an' it hummed a pleasin' song
   That I never thought in life again to hear;
We patched the durn o' winnower an' rattled her along
   To the tune of twenty-seven bushel clear.
Then I took to addin' sums to try an' figger out the price:
   What 'ud happen if it rose or if it fell --
It was either sell or hold.  An' when I asked the wife's advice,
   Why, she never stopped to think, but voted "Sell!"

Then it's stack the load an' take the road,
   An' sell while the price is high;
Push to an' back from barn to stack,
   For ther's chances slipping by.
An' it's -- Fill the can for the lumper man
   When the bags scale "over three;"
An' it's -- Hail the morn like a man new-born,
   An' shout to the world "We're free!"

I sold.  An' when the banker too me by my horny hand
   I felt as tho' I'd loved him all me life;
An' ol' Peters at the store was the politest in the land
   When he sent his best respec's out to me wife.
"Oh, it makes a diff'rence, don't it?" as I says to my ol' mare --
   She forgets 'twas in the eighties she was foaled.
She's a young-un, same as I am, since we ain't a mortgaged pair;
   An' she took the home-road like a two-year-old.

Oh, me heart is gay, for I seen to-day
   A look on the ol' wife's face
That's not been ther' since me an' her
   First truck this blessed place.
So it's - Race along, for I hear the song
   In the whisp'rin' sheoak tree;
An' the ol' mare's shoon beat out the tune
   We are free! by gum, we're free!

"C.J.D."
The Critic, 12 December 1903