Harvest War Song

We are coming home, John Farmer; we are coming back to stay.
For nigh on fifty years or more, we've gathered up your hay.
We have slept out in your hayfields, we have heard your morning shout;
We've heard you wondering where in hell's them pesky go-abouts?

Chorus

It's a long way, now understand me; it's a long way to town;
It's a long way across the prairie, and to hell with Farmer John.
Here goes for better wages, and the hours must come down;
For we're out for a winter's stake this summ'r, and we want no scabs around.

You've paid the going wages, that's what kept us on the bum.
You say you've done your duty, you chin-whiskered son of a gun.
We have sent your kids to college, but still you rave and shout.
And call us tramps and hoboes, and pesky go-abouts.

But now the long wintry breezes are a-shaking our poor frames,
And the long drawn days of hunger try to drive us boes insane.
It is driving us to action—we are organized today; 
Us pesky tramps and hoboes are coming back to stay.