In Ontario’s fields the wheat doth grow

Between the fence lines, row on row

That mark their place, and in the sky

The sun, brilliantly singing, fly

Scarce heard amidst the amber waves below

We are the millers from days ago

Grinding the harvest into pure white snow

Ground and were ground, and now we mill

In Ontario’s fields

Take up your flour with the leaven

To you from dusty hands we throw

The dough, be yours to watch it rise

Into sweet warm cookies, before the baker’s eyes.

We shall not cease grinding, as wheat doth grow