All day on the prairie in the saddle I ride,Not even a dog, boys, to trot by my side,My fire I kindle with chips gathered round,I boil my own coffee without being ground.I wash in a pool and I sleep on a sackI carry my wardrobe all on my back
For want of an oven, I cook bread in a potAnd sleep on the ground for want of a cotMy ceiling's the sky, my floor is the grassMy music is the lowing of herds as they passMy books are the brooks, my sermons the stonesMy parson's a wolf on his pulpit of bones
And then if my cooking's not very is completeYou can't blame me for wanting to eatBut show me a man who sleeps more profoundThan the big puncher boy who sleeps on the groundMy books teach me ever consistence to prizeMy sermons that small things I should not despise
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