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Soldiers Of The Soil
by [?]

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.”