| 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. |