I love this land of forest grand! The land where labour's free;Let others roam away from home, Be this the land for me!Where no one moils, and strains and toils, That snobs may thrive the faster;And all are free, as men should be, And Jack's as good's his master!
Where none are slaves, that lordly knaves May idle all the year;For rank and caste are of the past,-- They'll never flourish here!And Jew or Turk if he'll but work, Need never fear disaster;He reaps the crop he sowed in hope, For Jack's as good's his master.
Our aristocracy of toil Have made us what you see--The nobles of the forge and soil, With ne'er a pedigree!It makes one feel himself a man, His very blood leaps faster,Where wit or worth's preferred to birth, And Jack's as good's his master!
Here's to the land of forests grand! The land where labour's free;Let others roam away from home, Be this the land for me!For here 'tis plain, the heart and brain, The very soul grows vaster!Where men are free, as they should be, And Jack's as good's his master!
