IT'S a high-falutin' title they have handed us;
It's very complimentary and 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,--
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 fine 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.'