Song of the Farmer.
I have cattle that feed in the valley,
And herds that graze on the hill,
And I pride in the fruits of my labor,
For I’m lord of the land that I till,
I have plow’d the rough hill and the meadow
Till feeble with age and with toil,
And I know before long that another
Shall reap the new fruits of the soil.
For the son that hath toil’d for me ever,
And faithfully stood by my side,
Hath a hand that shall gather the harvest,
When his feeble old father hath died.
And the daughter so kind to her mother,
Shall share with him all I possess,
For I feel that they love me as father,
And welcome my tender caress.
There’s my faithful, my trusting companion,
My kind-hearted dear loving wife;
I have toil’d for her comfort with pleasure,
For such was the pride of my life.
And still in my manhood I love her,
For her kind and affectionate care,
And all that the earth can afford me,
With her I most willingly share.