Page 33 - Poetry-Country

From the labor of the laud his thoughts are free.
Though he sows,
And he hoes,
And he mows,
He rests from the work of the land.

But the faithful wife, from sun to sun,
Takes the burden up that’s never done;
There is no rest, there is no pay,
For the household good she must work away;
For to mend the frock,
And to knit the sock,
And the cradle to rock,
All for the good of the home.

When the autumn is here with chilling blasts,
The farmer gathers his crops at last,
His barns are full, his fields are bare,
For the good of the land he ne’er hath care,
While it blows,
And it snows,
Till the winter goes,
He rests from the work of the land.

But the willing wife, till life’s closing day,
Is the children’s and the husband’s stay,
From day to day she has done her best,
Until death alone can give her rest,
For after the test,
Comes the rest
With the blest,
In the farmer’s heavenly home.

— (from a Victorian Scrap Album)

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