An Exile
’Tis the census enumerator
A-singing all forlorn:
It’s ho! for the tall potater,
And ho! for the clustered corn.
The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine
Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine.
“Some there must be to till the soil
And the widow’s weeds keep down.
I wasn’t cut out for rural toil
But they won’t let me live in town!
They ’re not so many by two or three,
As they think, but ah! they ’re too many for me.”
Thus the census man, bowed down with care,
Warbled his wood-note high.
There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair,
But he had no blood in his eye.