Eighteen hundred and ninety-one
For good crops it leads the van;
As land had blessed showers of rain,
Which brought abundant crops of grain.
Not scorched with heat, the air was cool,
And the ears were large and full;
Forty bushel to the acre
Makes flour that delights the baker.
None ever saw such crops as these,
So great the yield of oats and peas;
Fifty bushels to the acre
Makes us grateful to our maker.