 | Farm festivals |  |
II.
The grim mechanic waved a hardened hand—
Behold! on every side his trophies stand:
The new-made plow, with curving iron beam,
The thresher, with its snowy plume of steam;
The cultivator, stripéd, gay, and proud,
With new ideas and dental wealth endowed;
The windmill, now once more at work for men,
Like some old help discharged and hired again;
The patent churns, whose recommends would seem
To promise butter, almost without cream;
Sewing-machines, of several-woman power,
And destitute of gossip, sweet or sour.
The loud piano raised its voice on high,
And sung the constant chorus, Who will buy?
The patent washer strove to clinch the creed
That cleanliness and laziness agreed;
The reaper, resting idly on its wheel,
Held forth a murderous arm of iron and steel,
And seemed to think 'twas waiting over-long
Before it might begin its rattling song:
Behold! on every side his trophies stand:
The new-made plow, with curving iron beam,
The thresher, with its snowy plume of steam;
The cultivator, stripéd, gay, and proud,
With new ideas and dental wealth endowed;
The windmill, now once more at work for men,
Like some old help discharged and hired again;
The patent churns, whose recommends would seem
To promise butter, almost without cream;
Sewing-machines, of several-woman power,
And destitute of gossip, sweet or sour.
The loud piano raised its voice on high,
And sung the constant chorus, Who will buy?
The patent washer strove to clinch the creed
That cleanliness and laziness agreed;
The reaper, resting idly on its wheel,
Held forth a murderous arm of iron and steel,
And seemed to think 'twas waiting over-long
Before it might begin its rattling song:
114
[SONG OF THE REAPER.]
My grandfather was right little and old,
And crooked and worn was he;
But his teeth were good, and his heart was bold,
And he swam the waves of a sea of gold,
But he couldn't keep up with me—me—me—
Couldn't keep up with me.
Then hie! away to the golden plain!
We will crash and dash through glistening grain,
And gather the wealth of earth and sun,
And the world will eat when our work is done!
And crooked and worn was he;
But his teeth were good, and his heart was bold,
And he swam the waves of a sea of gold,
But he couldn't keep up with me—me—me—
Couldn't keep up with me.
Then hie! away to the golden plain!
We will crash and dash through glistening grain,
And gather the wealth of earth and sun,
And the world will eat when our work is done!
My father he was bent and lean,
But a wide-spread hand had he;
And his fingers they were long and clean,
And he swung his broadsword bright and keen,
But he never could fight with me—me—me—
Never could fight with me!
Then hie! away where the sunlight sleeps,
And the wide-floored earth a granary keeps;
We will capture its bushels, one by one,
And the world will eat when our work is done!
But a wide-spread hand had he;
And his fingers they were long and clean,
And he swung his broadsword bright and keen,
But he never could fight with me—me—me—
Never could fight with me!
Then hie! away where the sunlight sleeps,
And the wide-floored earth a granary keeps;
We will capture its bushels, one by one,
And the world will eat when our work is done!
The grain-stalk bows his bristling head,
As I clatter and clash along,
The stubble it bends beneath my tread,
The stacker's yellow tent is spread,
And the hills throw back my song—my song—
The hills throw back my song!
Then hie! where the food of nations glows,
And the yellow tide of the harvest flows,
As we dash and crash and glide and run;
And the world will eat when our work is done!
As I clatter and clash along,
The stubble it bends beneath my tread,
The stacker's yellow tent is spread,
And the hills throw back my song—my song—
The hills throw back my song!
Then hie! where the food of nations glows,
And the yellow tide of the harvest flows,
As we dash and crash and glide and run;
And the world will eat when our work is done!
| Farm festivals | |