Soldiers Of The Soil

It's a high-falutin' title they have handed us; It's very complimentary an' grand; But a year or so ago they called us "hicks," you know-- An' joshed the farmer and his hired hand!

Now it's, "Save the country, Farmer! Be a soldier of the soil! Show your patriotism, pardner, By your never-ending toil." So we're croppin' more than ever, An' we're speedin' up the farm; Oh, it's great to be a soldier-- A sweatin', sun-burnt soldier,-- A soldier in the furrows-- Away from "war's alarm!"

While fightin' blight and blister, We hardly get a chance To read about our "comrades" A-doin' things in France. To raise the grub to feed 'em Is some job, believe me--plus! And I ain't so sure a soldier-- A shootin', scrappin' soldier, That's livin' close to dyin'-- Ain't got the best of us!

But we'll harrer and we'll harvest, An' we'll meet this new demand Like the farmers always meet it-- The farmers--and the land. An' we hope, when it is over An' this war has gone to seed, You will know us soldiers better-- Th' sweatin', reapin' soldiers, Th' soldiers that have hustled To raise th' grub you need!

It's a mighty fancy title you have given us, A name that sounds too fine to really stick; But maybe you'll forget (when you figure out your debt) To call th' man who works a farm a "hick."