There've been times we'd disagree
Somethin' awful, Ma an' me;
Times when I would bang the door
SEPTEMBER with her brushes dipped in dazzling red and gold
Now comes to paint the valleys and the hills;
And we forget completely that the year is getting old
As we gaze upon the color that she spills.
I'd rather be the willing horse that people ride to death
Than be the proud and haughty steed that children dare not touch;
I'd rather haul a merry pack and finish out of breath
Than never leave the barn to toil because I'm worth too much.
She is gentle, kind and fair,
And there's silver in her hair;
She has known the touch of sorrow,
But the smile of her is sweet;
The little house has grown too small, or rather we have grown
Too big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known.
And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well,
I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell.
Out in the woods with a dog an' gun
Is my idea of a real day's fun.
'Tain't the birds that I'm out to kill
That furnish me with the finest thrill,
GLAD to be back home again,
Where abide the friendly men;
Glad to see the same old scenes
Lord let me not in service lag.
Let me be worthy of our flag.
Let me remember when I'm tired,
The sons heroic who have died.
If I knew a better country in this glorious world today
Where a man's work hours are shorter and he's drawing bigger pay,
If the Briton or the Frenchman had an easier life than mine,
I'd pack my goods this minute and I'd sail across the brine.