Heritage

We are a part of this rough land
Deep - rooted like the tree
We've plowed this dirt with calloused hands
More than a century.

We know each cowbell's ringing here
Which tells the time of day.
We know the sloped to plant each year;
What our folks do and say.

We know the signals of each horn
And the messages they send
At set of sun or early mourn
Upon a blowing wind.


When we lay down in bed tonight
And hear a foxhorn blow,
We often rise, take lantern light,
Untie our hounds and go

We like to follow hounds that chase
The fox until the mourn
Then go back home with sleepy face
And on to plow the corn.

There is not one who does not love
A field and farming ground,
With sky and stars as roof above
And a conpanion hound!

We love this land we've always known
That holds us and out dead -
The rugged slopes with scattered stone
That grows out daily bread

We love the lyric of a barking hound
And a piping horn that thrills.
We love our high upheavaled ground,
Our Heritage of hills.