And so, we wander o’er the fields
Upon the mourner’s track;
With clouds and sheaves of wheat for shields,
The wind has changed its tack —

As ever on, we long to go,
As ever on we cry —
The land will hold us to its breast,
Because we cannot fly.

We dug and scratched a life out here,
Comprised of sweat and dust;
With wolves at bay and loved ones near,
We quarreled as folks must

But piped our prairie tunes with pride,
And help our shoulders tall;
For folks so small a world so wide —
We, masters, of it all

As ever on, we long to go,
As ever on we cry —
The land, it keeps us it its grasp,
Because we dare not fly.

The sanguine know, but never say,
The foolish drown in talk;
We wandering have lost our way,
And can’t tell lime from rock

We harvest little, planting much,
We water earth with tears —
And age has withered us with touch
And ruined us with years

As ever on, we long to go,
As ever on we cry —
The land, it keeps us for its own,
Because we will not fly.

My wife passed on into the blue,
My son passed into gray;
And still, I would not burden you
For even half a day

For wheat will grow when long I’m gone,
And hay will still be mowed;
They’ll be one fewer here, at dawn
For time will not be slowed

As ever on, I long to go,
My distant home, I spy —
The land, it cannot hold me now,
It’s my time, too,
To fly