Let "confidence" come with the flourish of drum,
And the tootings from hundreds of mills,
But I’d like to know, while they whistle and blow,
How the farmer will settle the bills?

I've lived in this state some years twenty-eight,
Through grasshoppers, drouth and like ills,—
They may toot and may blow, but when produce is low,
The farmers can't settle the bills.

Now corn has gone down in a hole in the ground,
And hogs are three cents where they kill,
We’ve fifty cent wheat—for Nebraska to eat,—
And the grangers to settle the bill.

Put up the freight rate, make more loans in the state,
And think you have ended our ills,
But the man who will groan ‘neath the freight rate and loan,
Is the farmer who settles the hills.

I hope "‘confidence" yet will pay off the debt
That rests on our prairies and hills,
For our oats and our corn look slim and forlorn,
To the farmer who settles the bills.

Let the looms whiz and roar from the lakes to seashore,
Making millions of goods in our mills.
But I rise to inquire of the factory fire
How the farmer will settle the bills?