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Old Guy was a farmer
When the work was done
He and I would walk for miles
To hear his fox-hounds run.
When the race was over
When the sun was sinking low
He’d blow his horn for old Big Ben
And homeward we would go.
Now Ben’s a long time silent
And the horn Guy used to blow
Is just a fading echo
In the hills of long ago.
But sometimes when I’m weary,
Wishing I was gone,
I hear his bull-horn blowing loud
Calling me back home.
Chorus:
Go home to the streams and the fields and the woods and the hills
Go home,
Turn again to the wind and the rain,
Go home, go home, go home.
Where are the men like Guy
Who bent to till the land
Yet always found the time to rise
And lend a helping hand.
Men who judged a man by what he was
Not what he was worth
Men who read the Good Book
And lived close to the earth.
Like rain-drops off the roof-top
They have fallen one-by-one
Like dew upon the hillside
They vanished in the sun.
But sometimes when I’m weary
Wishing I was gone
I hear them gently calling
Go home, son, go home.
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Repeat Chorus
Some times in modern comfort
It may seem kind of strange
How man once lived by the sweat of his brow
And felt the seasons change
That lonely country church-yard
May look forlorn and add
But men once planted cotton there
And gave it all to God
But now God’s acre’s
Gone to weeds
And tho the seasons change
They’re never felt but only seen
Through crystal window panes
And sometimes when I’m weary
Wishing I was gone
I think that maybe all of us
Should turn and go back home.
Chorus
Go home
Return to the goodness of brotherhood
Go home
Turn again to our fellow man
Go home, go home, go home.
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