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  Dishonor shall stamp us with shame And freedom be naught but a name, And the few years of dearly bought breath Will be filled with worse horrors than death.

We’ve raised a flagpole on the farm
 * And flung Old Glory to the sky,

And it’s another touch of charm
 * That seems to cheer the passer-by,

But more than that, no matter where
 * We’re laboring in wood and field,

We turn and see it in the air,
 * Our promise of a greater yield.

It whispers to us all day long From dawn to dusk: “Be true, be strong; Who falters now with plow or hoe Gives comfort to his country’s foe.”