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I saw an honest farmer,
His back was bending low.
Picking out his cotton.
He couldn't hardly go.
He piled it up in rail pens
Until the merchant come.
That he might take their cotton
And he might pay them some.

Goodbye, boll weevil,
You know you've ruint my home.
You know you've got my cotton
And the merchant's got my corn,

I saw him in the summer,
'Twas hot as it could be.
Strolling through the harvest field.
The sweat was running free.
He flang the cradle round him.
And gripped the golden grain.
Drew forth his handkerchief
And wiped the sweat again.

His footsteps they growed weary
As he marched up the hill.
Reached the little cabin
And sot upon the sill.
His wife she knelt beside him.
Her hair turned silvery gray.
Trust now in the Savior.
We'll find a home some day.

@farm @bug
tune: Palms of Victory
From Fiddlin' Jim Carson
Recorded by Bob Coltman
DT #664
filename[ BOLWEEV3

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