Dakota Sun - MUSIC AND LYRICS

The Man who never died

He was born in Gavle, eighteen
seventy-nine,

In a harbor town of salt and steel and Northern winter’s line.

A worker’s son with restless hands and questions in his eyes,

He learned too soon how truth is bent before the powerful and lies.

In nineteen hundred two he crossed the black Atlantic tide,

Chasing work and dignity the factory gates denied.

Through railyards, mills and picket lines his bitter songs were sown,

Till working men found courage in his words like broken stone.

They called him the man who never died, his voice across the land,

A union fire, a rebel hymn, a future close at hand.

Though the gallows took his breathing chest in nineteen fifteen’s fall,

Joe Hill still sings in every strike, in every factory wall.

A murder trial, a wounded side, a bullet’s silent proof,

He claimed a secret quarrel beneath a stranger’s roof.

But he never gave his story up, though it could have set him free,

He chose to guard another soul and face eternity.

They tied him to the execution chair, cold steel against his skin,

Yet all they killed was flesh and bone — not the world he stirred within.

For every worker rising up, for every justice cry,

His name still burns in history: Joe Hill shall never die.

They called him the man who never died, his voice across the land,

A union fire, a rebel hymn, a future close at hand.

Though the gallows took his breathing chest in nineteen fifteen’s fall,

Joe Hill still sings in every strike, in every factory wall.

Buzz on the Moon

Edwin Eugene in New Jersey, nineteen thirty dawn.

An officer’s son with a sky-bound dream from the day he was born.

His father taught the wings to rise, the rules of flight and flame,

And Buzz grew up with jet-stream hopes and stars that called his name.

Through sixty-six Korean skies he flew with steady hand,

Then traded cockpits for equations few could understand.

At MIT he chased the math that governs time and space,

A doctorate in orbit’s laws, a future taking shape.

From Nordic iron to lunar dust,

From Swedish roots to rocket thrust.

One small step carved in history’s light—

Buzz Aldrin walked where dreams take flight.

In sixty-three the call came through: Astronaut Group Three,

Gemini Twelve, a record walk beyond the gravity.

He learned to work in silence where the Earth fell far behind,

A calm, precise explorer with a scientist’s mind.

In sixty-nine beneath the Moon, with history in view,

He followed Armstrong’s famous step, the second—but still true.

The Aldrin name, once forged in Sweden’s iron land,

Now written in the stars by a human hand.

From Nordic iron to lunar dust,

From Swedish roots to rocket thrust.

One small step carved in history’s light—

Buzz Aldrin walked where dreams take flight.

From Nordic iron to lunar dust,

From Swedish roots to rocket thrust.

One small step carved in history’s light—

Buzz Aldrin walked where dreams take flight.

Sun Maid

Oh, let the sunshine dry the grapes, let the raisin story shine.

From Swedish roots to golden fields in California’s prime.

Sun Maid smiles in every box, a promise pure and true.

Naturally and sweet, from the land
they grew.

From Osbe village, where the fields were small and wide,

The Glim family packed their hopes and crossed the ocean tide.

Eighteen eighty-eight, with the sun still in their eyes,

They traded northern skies for California vines.

They bought the dusty vineyards, turned the soil with patient hands.

Let the sweet grapes dry slowly in the warmth of western lands.

From simple rows of fruit beneath a cloudless sky.

They learned how sunlight turns a harvest into gold through time.

Oh, let the sunshine dry the grapes, let the raisin story shine.

From Swedish roots to golden fields in California’s prime.

Sun Maid smiles in every box, a promise pure and true.

Naturally and sweet, from the land they grew.

Now generations later, the vines still know their name.

Though the world has grown much bigger, the heart’s remained the same.

The family’s land lives on today in fields they helped to frame.

A sunny dream that started small and never lost its flame.

Oh, let the sunshine dry the grapes, let the raisin story shine.

From Swedish roots to golden fields in California’s prime.

Sun Maid smiles in every box, a promise pure and true.

Naturally and sweet, from the land they grew.

Oh, let the sunshine dry the grapes, let the raisin story shine.

From Swedish roots to golden fields in California’s prime.

Sun Maid smiles in every box, a promise pure and true.

Naturally and sweet, from the land they grew.

The Three Lucky Swedes

John Brynteson was born to hunger in eighteen seventy-one,

Barefoot on frozen farmland beneath a mercyless sun.

No bread to spare, no warmth to keep the winter from his skin,

Just iron in his heartbeat and a fire
held within.

Into the white mouth of Alaska they sailed in ninety-eight,

Three men against the wrath of ice, the storm, and bleeding fate.

They struck the veins of destiny beneath the frozen ground,

And from their hands a golden empire and a raging town were found.

At sixteen years he crossed the sea, a boy against the tide,

With nothing but a shadow where his childhood dreams had died.

Through smoke and sweat of cities west he carried silent pain,

Till San Francisco’s harbor called him to the north again.

Into the white mouth of Alaska they sailed in ninety-eight,

Three men against the wrath of ice, the storm, and bleeding fate.

They struck the veins of destiny beneath the frozen ground,

And from their hands a golden empire and a raging town were found.

The river roared like judgment when the first bright gold appeared,

And Nome was born in chaos, dust, and thousands driven, feared.

They named them The Three Lucky Swedes as fires lit the sand,

But luck was carved from frost and bone by their unshaking hands.

From frozen death to fortune’s throne, his life became a flame,

A mountain rose to bear his mark — eternal, carved in name.

He built a church for lost men’s souls on California’s shore,

And horses thundered on his land where famine lived no more.

Into the white mouth of Alaska they sailed in ninety-eight,

Three men against the wrath of ice, the storm, and bleeding fate.

They struck the veins of destiny beneath the frozen ground,

And from their hands a golden empire and a raging town were found.

Into the white mouth of Alaska they sailed in ninety-eight,

Three men against the wrath of ice, the storm, and bleeding fate.

They struck the veins of destiny beneath the frozen ground,

And from their hands a golden empire and a raging town were found.

The Polar Aviator

Born Ingrid in the city of Stockholm, nineteen thirty-three,

She learned to trust the open sky and what her eyes could see.

In fifty-seven she earned her wings, one woman among the few,

With steady hands and steady nerves, she knew just what she’d do.

She married Einar Pedersen, who mapped the polar air,

They followed lines across the globe where few would ever dare.

From Scandinavia to Alaska, she claimed another name,

An American license, northern lights, the cockpit’s flame.

Over ice and endless white,

She flew by compass, stars, and sight.

Through polar night and frozen blue,

Ingrid Pedersen saw it through.

In sixty-three from Fairbanks out, a Cessna, small and strong,

Thirty-two long hours airborne, the silence wide and long.

She crossed the Pole at three thousand feet, the world turned upside down,

With Greenland’s ice and Bodø’s lights the journey etched her crown.

From Arctic Canada to Svalbard’s stone, she flew where cold winds bite,

Landing on the drifting ice in endless silver light.

She carried freight, she carried souls, she read the frozen land,

A polar aviator true, with motor oil on her hands.

Over ice and endless white,

She flew by compass, stars, and sight.

Through polar night and frozen blue,

Ingrid Pedersen saw it through.

Over ice and endless white,

She flew by compass, stars, and sight.

Through polar night and frozen blue,

Ingrid Pedersen saw it through.

Ticket to the promised land

The harbor of Gothenburg roared like a storm,

Metal and shouting and steam keeping warm,

Horses on cobblestone, wheels set in flight,

Carrying futures into the night.

Boats from the coast came blowing their cries,

Smoke in the air and salt in the sky,

Agents were shouting their promises loud,

Selling a dream to a desperate crowd.

And all I own is a paper in my hand,

“Gothenburg – New York” written in sand.

I sold my life for a narrow chance,

A second breath, a winter’s glance,

A key to a door I don’t understand.

Sacks and barrels in towering rows,

Footsteps that tremble where the cold wind blows,

Mothers are weeping into the coats,

Fathers stare silent, hands at their throats.

Words break apart like glass in the air,

“I’ll write you soon,” “God keep you there,”

Each farewell hanging, heavy and slow,

Like a wound that never quite will close.

And all I own is a paper in my hand,

“Gothenburg – New York” written in sand.

I sold my life for a narrow chance,

A second breath, a winter’s glance,

A key to a door I don’t understand.

Fourteenth of May and the whistle cries,

A final echo across goodbyes,

Fingers gripping that fragile line,

Of ink and hope and borrowed time.

Some had waited for years to stand here,

Counting coins, swallowing fear,

Now the gangway calls my name to go,

Where the west winds rise and the unknown grows.

And all I own is a paper in my hand,

“Gothenburg – New York” written in sand.

I sold my life for a narrow chance,

A second breath, a winter’s glance,

A key to a door I don’t understand.

Behind me: fields and frozen stone,

A language I may forget or own,

Ahead: a sea without a shore,

And a life I’ve never lived before.

If I return, I won’t be the same,

If I don’t… remember my name,

Just a shadow on the harbor wall,

When the next great whistle calls.

And all I own is a paper in my hand,

“Gothenburg – New York” written in sand.

A fragile dream, a trembling start,

A continent between each heart,

But still I walk, as the engines stand.

Bishop Hill

Oh, the ships rolled out from Sweden’s shore

In eighteen forty-six,

With a preacher named Erik J,

And a dream he couldn’t fix.

They walked the plains of Illinois,

Through heat and autumn chill,

And they laid their tired hands upon

The soil of Bishop Hill.

Sing low, sing soft,

For the prairie winds are still.

And the ghosts of early settlers walk

The roads of Bishop Hill.

Three hundred souls came first that year,

With hunger in their eyes,

They dug their homes in the frozen ground

Beneath the open skies.

That winter took near a hundred lives—

Too many graves to fill—

But still more wagons crossed the land

And gathered at the hill.

Sing low, sing soft,

For the prairie winds are still.

And the ghosts of early settlers walk

The roads of Bishop Hill.

They raised the red house on the rise,

A refuge warm and small;

Then twenty rooms inside the church

To shelter one and all.

And the Big Brick stood in fifty-one,

So proud against the dawn,

With a kitchen, hall, and seventy rooms—

A world to build upon.

Sing low, sing soft,

For the prairie winds are still.

And the ghosts of early settlers walk

The roads of Bishop Hill.

But time is long and fire is blind,

And nothing stands for sure;

The Big Brick’s bones were lost to flame

In nineteen twenty-four.*

Yet still the Steeple Building stands,

And stories linger still,

Of Swedish hearts who crossed the sea

To dream on Bishop Hill.

Sing low, sing soft,

For the prairie winds are still.

And the ghosts of early settlers walk

The roads of Bishop Hill.

The Invisible Man In Chicago

From West Tollstad he sailed away, thirteen with a city dream,

Shining shoes on corners cold, hustling in the Chicago stream.

Newspaper boy with a fire inside, chasing luck on crowded streets,

Building hope with every dollar, rising fast on restless feet.

Juniper Ale in a copper pot, a taste of Sweden in every sip,

Sold it quick, sold it clever, money flowing hand over fist.

From dusty alleys to marble halls, he climbed ladders rung by rung,

A Swedish brew and a Swedish name on every powerful tongue.

Oh, Fred Lundin, shadow king,

Pulling the wires, making the big bells ring.

From Swedish fields to America’s throne,

He built an empire all his own.

Congress halls and whispered rooms, where the real deals came alive,

Fred Lundin pulled the hidden strings, the force no one could deny.

Before Capone ruled Chicago’s night, Fred controlled the city’s day,

The unseen king of politics, shaping power his own way.

Oh, Fred Lundin, shadow king,

Pulling the wires, making the big bells ring.

From Swedish fields to America’s throne,

He built an empire all his own.

Oh, Fred Lundin, shadow king,

Chicago moved every time he'd swing.

From Juniper Ale to the power line,

The Swedish boy who rose to shine.

Peggy Lee

Born Norma Dolores on a North Dakota plain,

Jamestown nights and prairie lights, with Nordic blood in vein.

From Swedish songs and lullabies to dreams that wouldn’t stay,

She learned to bend a melody, her heart Lead all the way.

She found her voice in smoky rooms where all the big bands played,

Till Benny Goodman heard her tone and a star was gently made.

On the road through the forties with a rhythm bold and bright,

She sang her way to history under shiny ballroom lights.

Oh Peggy Lee, soft and slow,

A velvet fire, a quiet glow.

One whispered note, the room stood still,

She sang with grace, she sang with will.

“Why Don’t You Do Right” hit gold and never let her go,

Then came Fever, burning cool, with words she sang just so.

A singer, writer, actress too, she shaped each line her own,

Turned every simple song to something finely honed.

Oh Peggy Lee, soft and slow,

A velvet fire, a quiet glow.

From prairie wind to spotlight beam,

She sang the sound of an American dream.

From Capitol to Columbia, from Decca’s shining name,

To movie screens and TV lights where elegance reigned.

Though time rolled on, her voice lives strong beyond her final day,

Peggy Lee still lingers where the jazz hearts sway.

Oh Peggy Lee, soft and slow,

A velvet fire, a quiet glow.

From prairie wind to spotlight beam,

She sang the sound of an American dream.

Hedstrom and Hendee

Born down in Åkarp, seventy-one,

Swedish boy with a restless run.

Crossed that ocean all alone,

Brooklyn streets gave him a home!

Daddy gave him a cycle frame,

Oscar heard it called his name.

By sixteen years with tools in hand,

Clockwork gears turned into plans.

Ride on, Indian cycle, hear that sound.

Steel and fire tearing up the ground.

Built by man, built to stay.

Let that engine sing its way!

Gas on a tandem, cutting the breeze,

Pacers pulling records with mechanical ease.

Runners flying in the slipstream line,

Wind fell silent — speed felt fine.

Ride on, Indian cycle, hear that sound.

Steel and fire tearing up the ground.

Built by man, built to stay.

Let that engine sing its way!

Along came Hendee from Springfield town,

Saw that genius, wrote it down.

Nineteen-oh-one legend began,

Thirty-two thousand strong by man!

Ride on, Indian cycle, hear that sound.

Steel and fire tearing up the ground.

Built by man, built to stay.

Let that engine sing its way!

Ride on, Indian cycle, hear that sound.

Steel and fire tearing up the ground.

Built by man, built to stay.

Let that engine sing its way!

Ride on, Indian cycle, hear that sound.

Steel and fire tearing up the ground.

Built by man, built to stay.

Let that engine sing its way!

Ride on, Indian cycle, hear that sound.

Steel and fire tearing up the ground.

Built by man, built to stay.

Let that engine sing its way!

The Bus King

From the mines up in Hibbing, where the long days rang,

A young Swedish dreamer heard the freedom trains clang.

With a seven-seat Hupmobile and a hard winter sky,

He drove his friends to work while the cold rolled by.

Roll on, Bus King, down the wide American line,

From dusty northern highways to the towns that shine.

What started with a single ride became a nation’s guide—

Roll on, Bus King, keep the wheels in time.

In the year nineteen fourteen, he set his first route,

Between Hibbing and Alice, where the word got out.

Passengers gathered for the man who’d never fail,

And the humming of his engine told a hopeful tale.

Roll on, Bus King, down the wide American line,

From dusty northern highways to the towns that shine.

What started with a single ride became a nation’s guide—

Roll on, Bus King, keep the wheels in time.

Greyhound rose from the gravel, mile after mile,

And Time crowned its founder with a broad-shouldered smile.

Still speaking with the cadence of the country he knew,

But steering through a future only he could view.

Roll on, Bus King, down the wide American line,

From dusty northern highways to the towns that shine.

What started with a single ride became a nation’s guide—

Roll on, Bus King, keep the wheels in time.

Roll on, Bus King, down the wide American line,

From dusty northern highways to the towns that shine.

What started with a single ride became a nation’s guide—

Roll on, Bus King, keep the wheels in time.

The Golden Gate Bridge Tragedy

At the edge of San Francisco, where the red towers rise,

Men carved steel into the skyline under wind-torn skies.

Among them stood Lindros, with a hammer in his hand,

A Swedish son turned builder in a far, bright land.

Raise the bridge, raise the dream,

Though the tide runs dark beneath.

Carve their names into the beam—

Hold the fallen in the deep.

Raise the bridge, raise the dream.

On a cold February morning, nineteen thirty-seven’s roar,

Fourteen men on a platform just beneath the iron floor.

Then a shatter, then a tearing, cables screaming through the wind—

And the sea rose up to take them, pulling ten brave men within.

Raise the bridge, raise the dream,

Though the tide runs dark beneath.

Carve their names into the beam—

Hold the fallen in the deep.

Raise the bridge, raise the dream.

Only two were recovered from the water’s hungry sway,

While the rest were drawn to silence where the tides obey.

Yet one man, Oscar Osberg, lived the fall no man should live—

A miracle in the breakers, a breath the sea would give.

Raise the bridge, raise the dream,

Though the tide runs dark beneath.

Carve their names into the beam—

Hold the fallen in the deep.

Raise the bridge, raise the dream.

And Lindros’ name still glimmers where the southern towers stand—

A memory forged in iron, held forever by the land.

S S Lurline

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Carry the islands and bring them back home.

From Frisco’s light to Hawaiian sand.

Matson’s ships to the faraway land.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Born in Lysekil, with the North Sea in his eyes,

Fourteen and fatherless, he chased the open skies.

Sailed to New York, then down the western line,

A boy became a captain with a restless heart and sign.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Carry the islands and bring them back home.

From Frisco’s light to Hawaiian sand.

Matson’s ships to the faraway land.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

1882 he loaded Emma Claudina’s hold.

Three hundred tons of hope bound for Hilo’s fold.

That first big voyage lit the fire in his name.

He sold the schooner, took the Lurline, and he doubled up the frame.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Carry the islands and bring them back home.

From Frisco’s light to Hawaiian sand.

Matson’s ships to the faraway land.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

He put cold stores and lights on decks where sailors sleep,

Sent the first oil-burning steamers where the great seas run deep.

Hotels and planes and service when the war drums cried,

But hauling freight to Hawaii was the thing that made him stride.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Carry the islands and bring them back home.

From Frisco’s light to Hawaiian sand.

Matson’s ships to the faraway land.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Carry the islands and bring them back home.

From Frisco’s light to Hawaiian sand.

Matson’s ships to the faraway land.

Roll on, Lurline, roll on through the foam.

Samuelsson and the bottle

Alexander came from Sweden, from the glassworks by the sea,

At Surte north of Gothenburg, where fire shaped destiny.

In 1883 he sailed toward a different life,

With stained hands full of visions and American dreams in sight.

Oh, that bottle in your hand, with its curves so strong and true,

Shaped like a cocoa bean, and known the whole world through.

He put his name upon the patent, though the wealth went to another man,

Still his mark lives on forever in that glass across the land.

In Terre Haute, Illinois, they worked through night and day,

At the Chapman Root Bottling works, where the glass would find its way.

Earl R. Dean drew the lines that traced the famous mold,

But Alexander led the process, as the story’s often told.

They made it smooth and easy for the hand to hold tight,

So it wouldn’t shatter when it fell, or vanish from your sight.

In blue and green and crystal clear its first designs took form,

Till the shape grew tall and slender and outlived the passing storms.

Oh, that bottle in your hand, with its curves so strong and true,

Shaped like a cocoa bean, and known the whole world through.

He put his name upon the patent, though the wealth went to another man,

Still his mark lives on forever in that glass across the land.

Mary in the White House

Mary Anderson had Swedish blood and steady, patient hands,

Raised on stories of the old world and distant northern lands.

She walked into the White House with her letters tied in twine,

Just a quiet young secretary at the turning point of time.

Oh, White House halls where the long shadows fall,

Five presidents trusted her through triumph and through downfall.

From Swedish roots to history’s door, she answered every call,

Mary Anderson, steady heart behind the marble wall.

From Hoover’s years to Eisenhower’s strong command,

She typed the words that shaped a fearful, hopeful land.

Wars and worries passed through every line she wrote,

While America held its breath on each decision’s note.

She never asked for glory, never stood within the light,

But her footsteps crossed the corridors both early morn and night.

And when she finally left that house of power wide and grand,

She carried quiet history in her hardworking hands.

Oh, White House halls where the long shadows fall,

Five presidents trusted her through triumph and through downfall.

From Swedish roots to history’s door, she answered every call,

Mary Anderson, steady heart behind the marble wall.

Kristina

Workin’ the rail by the big brown stream,

Swingin’ my hammer, chasin’ a dream.

Night comes down, and the stars all shine,

But none so bright as that girl o’ mine.

Oh, Kristina, can you hear my song?

Across that sea, it won’t be long.

I send my pay in an envelope thin,

So you can buy your ticket and come sail in.

I smell the pine from my homeland still,

See your face on the window sill.

The Delta wind, it calls my name,

But it ain’t home, it don’t feel the same.

I count the days till the mail boat comes,

Dream of your hand and the sound of drums.

When you step down on this foreign land,

I’ll hold you close with my work-worn hand.

Oh, Kristina, can you hear my song?

Across that sea, it won’t be long.

I send my pay in an envelope thin,

So you can buy your ticket and come sail in.

Mississippi rollin’, carry me home,

Till my Kristina ain’t alone.

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