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All the weary mothers of the earth will finally rest; |
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We will take their babies in our arms, and do our best. |
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When the sun is low upon the field, |
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To love and music they will yield, |
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And the weary mothers of the earth will rest. |
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And the farmer on his tractor, and beside his plow, |
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Will stand there in confusion as we wet his brow |
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With the tears of all the businessmen |
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Who see what they have done to him, |
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And the weary farmers of the earth shall rest. |
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And the aching workers of the world again shall sing |
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These words in mighty choruses to all will bring - |
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"We shall no longer be the poor, |
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For no one owns us any more," |
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And the workers of the world again shall sing. |
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And when the soldiers burn their uniforms in every land, |
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And the foxholes at the borders will be left unmanned - |
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General, when you come for the review |
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The troops will have forgotten you, |
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And the men and women of the earth shall rest. |
