It's a hard life and sure and colder than ice
Pitch forks and milk pails could scarcely suffice
To bring out the music that played in my mind
Working Dad's farm back in 1909
I kept in my pocket a picture I'd torn
From the new Eaton's catalogue: Page 151
My pocket of dreams: a picture that showed
A cabinet grand piano
Father was angry. He says, "No such thing
Into this God-fearing household I'll bring
Pianos and fiddles, they're all the same
They just lead to dancing! They're the Devil's own game
For getting our daughters into the arms
Of slick city fellas and off of the farm"
Father had built us a grand country place
With fine crafted brickwork and carved wooden lace
How lonely and empty the wainscotted walls
The oak-finished parlour and the cold plastered halls
One damp, misty morning a wagon team came
With a cracked wooden wheel in a rutted mud lane
Bill Fletcher from Heintzman he says, "I've broke down
Can you store my piano while I ride back to town?"
The bright ivories shone, the dark walnut gleamed
All carved in the style of Louis XIV
But Father looked sour, his face was so grim
Till young Bill from Heintzman he struck up a hymn
The strains of Old Hundredth rang out and then
Bill ended the tune with a stirring, "Amen"
There was a hush for never had I
Seen my poor dad with a tear in his eye
Contract in pocket, Bill took his leave
The wagon wheel fixed up, by magic it seemed
The piano was mine, we'd sing and we'd play
Till the cold and the loneliness melted away
