 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
37
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 he would die.
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 he would die.
How pleasant to sit in the cool porch door,
While you gaze, half reclined at your ease,
Half asleep, o'er your beautiful field of grass,
As it 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 cover your hands.
While you gaze, half reclined at your ease,
Half asleep, o'er your beautiful field of grass,
As it 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 cover your hands.
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 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.
And it speaks of contentment and plenty
To see a large stable well filled with choice cows,
Say numbering 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.
38
But the task fairly o'er, 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 your 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.
And joyfully seek your repose,
To dream of the cream-pots with luxury filled,
And milk-pans in numberless rows;
But your 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 no one disputes that the farmer is blessed
With true independence and labor,
Whose food don't depend on the whims of mankind,
Like that of his mercantile neighbor.
For God in His mercy looks down from above,
And patiently gives him his bread.
Provided he works eighteen hours every day,
And devotes only six to his bed.
With true independence and labor,
Whose food don't depend on the whims of mankind,
Like that of his mercantile neighbor.
For God in His mercy looks down from above,
And patiently gives him his bread.
Provided he works eighteen hours every day,
And devotes only six to his bed.
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |