We are coming home, John Farmer,|
We are coming back to stay.
For nigh on fifty years or more,
We've gathered up your hay.
We have slept out in your hayfields,
We have heard your morning shout;
We've heard you wondering
Where in hell's them pesky go-abouts?
It's a long way, now understand me;
It's a long way to town;
It's a long way across the prairie,
And to hell with Farmer John.
Up goes machine or wages,
And the hours must come down;
For we're out for a winter's stake this summer,
And we want no scabs around.
2. You've paid the going wages,|
That's what kept us on the bum,
You say you've done your duty,
You chin-whiskered son of a gun.
We have sent your kids to college,
But still you must rave and shout,
And call us tramps and hoboes,
And pesky go-abouts.
3. But now the wintry breezes
| Song Index | Home Page |