 | Poems |  |
HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE.
How pleasant is the farmer's life! away from smoky towns
He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills and downs,
And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he crowns;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills and downs,
And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he crowns;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
No prison'd life the farmer lives, bent over desk and book,
Or cribb'd within a shop all day, till white and wan's his look,
Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our Suke;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
Or cribb'd within a shop all day, till white and wan's his look,
Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our Suke;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
As to your white-faced tradesman who fawns and smirks and smiles,
Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles,
What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and stiles?
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles,
What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and stiles?
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
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Our arms are strong with labour, our cheeks are red with health,
We never gain a penny'sworth by lying, trick or stealth,
Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our share of wealth;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
We never gain a penny'sworth by lying, trick or stealth,
Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our share of wealth;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
How pleasant is the Spring-time! 'tis then we plough and sow,
And through the shining mornings, beside our teams we go,
While in the fields the lambkius leap and frisk their joy to show;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
And through the shining mornings, beside our teams we go,
While in the fields the lambkius leap and frisk their joy to show;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
How pleasant is the Summer-time! 'tis then we make our hay,
And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy all the day,
'Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and joke and play;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy all the day,
'Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and joke and play;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
Then comes the pleasant Autumn-time when sheaves are reap'd and bound,
And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale go round,
And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails resound;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale go round,
And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails resound;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
And when our fields are stripp'd and bare, and white with sleet and snow,
When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights we know,
With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set our hearts aglow;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights we know,
With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set our hearts aglow;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
Then luck to all good farmers! God send them still, I say,
Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want each day,
Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful hearts, I pray;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want each day,
Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful hearts, I pray;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.
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