The sun comes over the top of the hill, Shines on the fields I've yet to till.
My bones are weary, but I know I will, And not just because you ask it.
Brick and hoe hung on twenty penny nails, Milkloys sweet in a dozen pails,
Hay piled up in a hundred bales, And apples in the basket.
A house that's tight to the wind and snow, A barn that's full of the things we grow,
An empty purse, but I don't owe A thing to any man living.
A woman warm, a woman kind, A woman who knows her own sweet mind,
A woman who knows just what's behind The things that she's forgiven.
There's branches on the family tree, There's a boy, a girl, and the baby's three.
They look like her, they look like me, Like folks that's dead and gone now.
But I don't care, we're all the same, There's none to bless and none to blame.
We'll do it in the family's name, The work we carry on now.
The old grey goose is on the wing, But he'll be back again next spring.
Each year we do the same old thing, And the same old wheel goes spinning.
When the air is warm and the earth is sweet, And the good clean dirt is on our feet,
The circle comes around complete, And the end is the beginning.
The sun comes over the top of the hill, Shines on the fields I've yet to till.
My bones are weary, but I know I will, And not just because you ask it.
A rake and hoe hung on twenty penny nails, Milk, lye, sweet in a dozen pails,
Hay piled up in a hundred bales, And apples in a basket.
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