| I took a place in a farm in Strathmore
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| To bring the harvest home and watch the nature roar
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| And we’d rise at dawn in the sun’s clear light
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| In the sun’s clear light
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| And we’d start our day with a sleepy head
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| Sat on the old wood bench in the tractor shed
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| And the grieve would say lads it’s time to go
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| It’s time to go
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| And it turns again, endless and slow
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| It turns again, with every breath we blow
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| For it’s the only thing we know
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| Old dave was first and we dare not leave
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| Until the pipe was done and he rolled his sleeve
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| And then we’d all set out to the far top field
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| To the far top field
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| And old dave would cut and tim and i would lead
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| And we’d move the hay till our hands would bleed
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| With a story told to keep our spirits high
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| To keep our spirits high
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| And it turns again, endless and slow
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| It turns again, with every breath we blow
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| For it’s the only thing we know
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| And we’d work the while and we’d sweat our brow
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| And we’d take our piece on the hazel knowe
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| And it would taste so good and old Dave would smile
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| Old Dave would smile
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| And it turns again, endless and slow
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| It turns again, with every breath we blow
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| For it’s the only thing we know |