If oats were looking up, or wheat was laid,
For flies in turnip, or a blight in hops,
Or how the barley prosper’d or decay’d;
In short, no items of the farming trade.
Peas, beans, tares, ’taters, could his mind beguile;
Nor did he answer to the servant maid,
That always asked at every other mile,
“Where do we change, Sir?” with her sweetest smile.
“LORD, JOHN, HERE’S A BURROW!”