Page 34 - Poetry-Country

The Independent Farmer

How pleasant it seems to live on a farm,
Where nature’s so gaudily dressed,
And sit ‘neath the shade of the old locust tree,
As the sun is just sinking to rest;
But not half so pleasant to hoe in the field,
Where the witch grass is six inches high,
With the hot, scorching sun pouring down on your back—
Seems each moment as though you would die!

‘Tis pleasant to sit in the cool porch door,
While you smoke, half reclined at your ease,
Looking out o’er your beautiful field of grass,
That sways to and fro in the breeze;
But not quite so pleasant to start with your scythe
Ere the morning sun smiles o’er the land,
And work till your clothes are completely wet through,
And blisters shall cover your hand.
In keeping a dairy there’s surely delight,
And it speaks of contentment and plenty
To see a large stable well filled with choice cows—
Say, numbering from fifteen to twenty;
And yet it seems hard, when you’ve worked from the dawn
Till the sun disappears from your sight,
To think of the cows you have yet got to milk,
Before you retire for the night.

But the tasks fairly over, you cheer up once more,
And joyfully seek your repose,
To dream of the cream-pots with luxury filled,
And milk-pans in numberless rows;
But the sweet dream is broken when, early next day,
You’re politely requested to churn,
And for three weary hours, with strength ebbing fast,
The victim despondingly turns.
But in raising young pigs there is surely a charm,
When they sell at the present high price,
And of all the young stock which a farmer can raise,
There’s nothing that looks half so nice.
How cheerful one feels as he leaves them at night,
The encouraging number of eleven;

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