| Way before the sun comes up,
|
| Already on his second cup,
|
| He’s looking out across the open sky.
|
| As streaks of orange, pink, and gray
|
| Wash over rows of new mown hay
|
| The rangeland fills a cowboy’s heart with pride.
|
| He rises slowly from his chair,
|
| His back is stiff, grey’s in his hair.
|
| He’s spent a lot of lone days in the sun.
|
| He ain’t one much to complain
|
| He saddles up, takes the reins,
|
| And rides har ‘til his working day is done.
|
| You can see it in the eyes of every woman and man
|
| Who’ve spent their whole lives living close to the land.
|
| There’s a love for the country
|
| And a pride in the brand
|
| In America’s heartland living close to the land
|
| In America’s heartland close to the land.
|
| When the sun is high overhead
|
| She’s been eight hours out of bed.
|
| She’s still got a lot of work to do,
|
| Pulling weeds an' patchin' jeans
|
| And keepin' faith when times are lean,
|
| She does a man’s work and a woman’s too.
|
| She’ll run a tractor, water stock,
|
| Fix the truck, then feed her flock
|
| But somehow she gets roses from the ground.
|
| She ain’t got a thing to prove
|
| She simply does what she must do
|
| From early morning ‘til the sun goes down.
|
| You can see it in the eyes of every woman and man
|
| Who’ve spent their whole lives living close to the land.
|
| There’s a love for the country
|
| And a pride in the brand
|
| In America’s heartland living close to the land
|
| In America’s heartland close to the land.
|
| There’s something that the people know
|
| Who make things live and make things grow
|
| Deeper than the words of any sage
|
| That unless you’ve touched this earth,
|
| Planted seeds, or given birth
|
| The human heart can never come of age.
|
| You can see it in the eyes of every woman and man
|
| Who’ve spent their whole lives living close to the land.
|
| There’s a love for this country
|
| And a pride in the brand
|
| In America’s heartland living close to the land
|
| In America’s heartland close to the land.
|
| Bringin' in the sheaves, bringin' in the sheaves
|
| We shall come rejoicing bringin' in the sheaves.
|
| ‘Tis a gift to be simple,
|
| ‘Tis a gift to be free,
|
| ‘Tis a gift to come down
|
| Where we ought to be.
|
| When we find ourselves in the place just right
|
| It will be in the valley of love and delight.
|
| And when true simplicity is gained
|
| To bow and to bend we won’t be ashamed.
|
| To turn, turn will be our delight
|
| «Til by turning, turning we come round right. |