Field Song by William Elliott Whitmore Lyrics

Write this down, and don't forget
That the best of times ain't happened yet
The gilded age has long been done
And so many lost when the west was won

Let's go to the field were gonna do some work
Spend our day digging in the dirt
We'll hope for rain to follow the plow
And this piece of ground is a homestead now
This little piece of ground is a homestead now

Three square meals and a living wage
Reminds me of the good ol' days
Before the manifest destiny of the factory farms
When those cut throats came and burned down the barn

Underneath the black locust tree
There's a shady place that waits for me
To rest my bones and to rest my mind
I'm gonna rest right here when I die
Write this down and don't forget
That the best of times ain't happened yet…