Lament of the Ex-Farmer

Lament of the Ex-Farmer


I wish I’d never left the farm,
To please my wife I done it;
She said “‘Twould do our darters harm
Ef they wuz raised upon it;
They’d grow up frowsy, rough and wild,
And marry some simple Harry,
While in the town a well-bred child
Would hev’ some chance to marry.”

And now we’re here shet up like sparrows
In a golden canary’s cage,
When I’d much rather be a follerin’ the harrows
In a field perfumed with sage;
I miss the cow bell’s tinkle and lowin’
for their calves;
I miss the young colt’s whinner for its
mother in the shafts;
At night in my dreams I wander back
to the dear old farm,
And shout to my horses yonder
Much to my wife’s alarm.

The girls say the boys keep laffin’,
An’ call us the hayseed gang,
Cause I won’t give up my farm talk,
And take to their city twang;
I cud show them a heap of money
Made by the same green seeds,
And it twasn’t by playin’ neither,
But by pullin’ up the weeds.

Some folks may like the city- they’re
welcome to their fill,-
But I hate the tarnal bustle, and sounds
that are never still;
I miss the crows acallin’, and the rustling
of the corn,
So I am going back to the farm again,
To the home where I was born.


Celebrating 150 Years of Canadian Agriculture