I am for the men who made every rod o' that land an' who own not a single rod of it.

Years an' years ago a king gave it to a man who never cut one tree or laid one stone on another.

The deeds say that we must pay a rent o' so many bushels o' wheat a year but the land is no good for wheat, an' ain't been for a hundred years.

Why, ye see, mister, a good many things have happened in three hundred years.

The land was willin' to give wheat then an' a good many folks was willin' to be slaves.