When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane

And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,

Richer and statelier then you'll reign,

Mother of men whom the world will praise.

And your sons will love you and sigh for you,

Labor and battle and die for you,

But never the fondest will understand

The way we have loved you, young, young land.

When my feet is in the stirrups

And my hawse is on the bust.

There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick.

We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed.

The taut ropes sing like a banjo string

And the latigoes creak and strain.

I wait to hear him ridin' up behind.

There's land where yet no ditchers dig

Nor cranks experiment;

It's only lovely, free and big

And isn't worth a cent.

Born of a free, world-wandering race

Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.