How I remember long ago from January to December
Working so hard from before sun until it had died..
A farmers hand telling always of where he was dwelling
With rough skin and oldest ever blisters that had dried..
With crow bar and axe how they all paid a retiring tax
And the draft horses in harness all then pulled the plow..
A life time of as said hard yakka they rolled real tobacca
Worked hard building the country their grand kids have now..
They never back then wore todays ever so new country boots
And the fancy shirts and hats they all dress in it seems today..
They'd go monthly in sulky horse drawn cart to town ever so brown
Looking more like they had all just walked out of the finest hay..
Their machinery it was solid steel all of it right down to the wheel
And they all spent more time with it then than with a loving wife..
Their wives they worked hard of day true to say just like bees in hives
And they then all knew long ago the real true meaning of strife..
Way long before like today they all cry in their very own way
Of what the enjoying a smoke of tobacco it all does to a soul..
But with the hardest of then yakka the only break was tobacca
And they all worked so harder then long after all growing old..
There was back then no holidays or weekends any at all away
They never knew of the todays finery now known ever so grand..
Often the only day off was to church or an old mates funeral
And they spent entire life time with hard yakka working the land..