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 ai n't so sure a soldier —

A shootin’, scrappin’ soldier,

That's livin’ close to dyin’ —

Ai n'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.”