We’ve raised a flagpole on the farm
And flung Old Glory to the sky,
And it’s another touch of charm
That seems to cheer the passer-by,
But more than that, no matter where
We’re laboring in wood and field,
We turn and see it in the air,
Our promise of a greater yield.
It whispers to us all day long,
From dawn to dusk: ‘Be true, be strong;
Who falters now with plow or hoe
Gives comfort to his country’s foe.’
It seems to me I’ve never tried
To do so much about the place,
Nor been so slow to come inside,
But since I’ve got the flag to face,
Each night when I come home to rest
I feel that I must look up there
And say: ‘Old Flag, I’ve done my best,
To-day I’ve tried to do my share.’
And sometimes, just to catch the breeze,
I stop my work, and o’er the trees
Old Glory fairly shouts my way:
‘You’re shirking far too much to-day!’
The help have caught the spirit, too;
The hired man takes off his cap
Before the old red, white and blue,
Then to the horses says: ‘giddap!’
And starting bravely to the field
He tells the milkmaid by the door:
‘We’re going to make these acres yield
More than they’ve ever done before.’
She smiles to hear his gallant brag,
Then drops a curtsy to the flag.
And in her eyes there seems to shine
A patriotism that is fine.
We’ve raised a flagpole on the farm
And flung Old Glory to the sky;
We’re far removed from war’s alarm,
But courage here is running high.
We’re doing things we never dreamed
We’d ever find the time to do;
Deeds that impossible once seemed
Each morning now we hurry through.
The flag now waves above our toil
And sheds its glory on the soil,
And boy and man looks up to it
As if to say: ‘I’ll do my bit!’
