THE PLOUGHBOY'S DOOM!
The stubble-headed Ploughboy
No more a-field shall stride,
Smock-frocked, with whip on shoulder,
The steer or steed to guide;
At dawn, no more shall whistle
With early lark and thrush;
No longer stalk the fallows,
The clods no longer crush.
In vacant rumination,
No more shall sit on gate;
His shanks beneath him dangling
By hob-nailed highlows' weight.
That form of grace no longer
The hedgerows shall adorn,
His dab of bacon slicing
Upon his palm of horn.
The Boy—smock, boots, and bacon,
And whip,—must yield to Steam;
His whistle must be silent,
Whilst engines hiss and scream;
For Mechi has in action
A new machine e'en now,
And says his apparatus
Will supersede the Plough.