An’ it’s eye-musick, pard, fer yer soul!
The glint o’ the sun on our Fall wheat fiel’s—
More em’raldy now then in May—
Is Nacher’s own dope on thet undyin’ hope
Thet keeps us a-pluggin’ away.
They’s a nawful sweet peece kind o’ hangin’ aroun’
An’ it’s great by this ’ere shock o’ stover
Ter feel the ol’ Earth all set fer re-birth
When the War an’ the Winter is over.