I s’pose all farmers gits thet way in time,
An’ I don’t wonder; it’s enough ter make
Perfesh’nal prophits feel onsartin like.
I mean the everlastin’ buckin’ up
Agin ol’ Nacher an’ the elemunts
Year in, year out, ontil ye wouldn’t sw’ar
’T ye’ve got ’ny oats at all, f’r exampel, even
When cut an’ thrashed an’ layin’ in the bin;
Yew know thet somp’n still kin spile thet crop.
’F a farmer wants ter gamble, he don’t hev