But there is fruit again; the grass is high,—
I guess by fall I’ll have my fences set!
I’ve got some hay down, lying cut to dry,—
And hard work helps a man who must forget!
And I keep thinking that it may not be
The South has met her end! This may begin
A time when men no longer feel so free
To say to other men: you live in sin
For which there’s need to cure you with a gun!
It could be here was born a brotherhood,—