Trials of the Farmer
I want to be a farmer
And with the farmers stand—
A whetstone in my pocket,
A blister on my hand.
I sing to be a farmer,
Without the right of way
Across my neighbor’s lot to drive
My ox-cart or my sleigh.
I long to be a farmer
And own a breachy mare,
That oft will leap the bound’ry line,
And make my neighbors swear.
I pine to be a farmer
And own a kicking steer,
That I may feel his horny heel
Whenever I draw near.
I sigh to be a farmer
And plant my field of corn,
That crows may flock and pull it up
Before the streak of morn.
I shout to be a farmer:
How much I would adore
To drive a big and stubborn pig
Some five miles or more.