By Lydia Sigourney
Saw you the farmer at his plough,
As you were passing by?
Or wearied ‘neath his noon-day toil
When summer suns were high?
And thought you that his lot was hard?
And did you thank your God
That you and yours were not condemn’d
Thus like a slave to plod?
Come, see him at his harvest-home,
When garden, field, and tree,
Conspire, with flowing stores to fill
His barn and granary.
His healthful children gaily sport
Amid the new-mown hay,
Or gladly aid, with vigorous arm,
His task as best they may.
The dog partakes his master’s joy,
And guards the loaded wain,
The feathery people clap their wings,
And lead their youngling train.
Perchance, the hoary grandsire’s eye,
The glowing scene surveys,
And breathes a blessing on his race,
Or guides their evening praise.
The Harvest-Giver is their friend,
The Maker of the soil,
And Earth, the Mother, gives them bread,
And cheers their patient toil.
Come, join them round their wintry hearth,
Their heartfelt-pleasures see,
And you can better judge how blest.
The farmer’s life may be.