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The Crops In The Field
Don't fret Martha You and the boys, Show me your smile, The North can't last But just a while. Why, 'tis but June, No Yankee bullet for me, I'll be home real soon. That old roam and me, When the Yankees yield, The corn is high, The crops in the field. 'Neath the Blue Ridge tonight Martha stands weeping So alone in the dark, A Yankee bullet Had found its mark. No one to harvest the yield, The corn is high, The crops in the field. |