British Farmer, loq.:—
Bless my old bones!—they're weary ones, wherefore I takes small shame—
For the first time for many a year mine looks a winning game!
A "bumper" harvest? Blissful thought! For long I've been fair stuck,
But now I really hope I see a change in my bad luck.
True, my opponent is a chap 'tis doosed hard to match.
I seed a picture once of one a playing 'gainst Old Scratch,
And oftentimes I feels like that, a-sticking all together,
Against that demon-dicer whom we know as British Weather!
What use of ploughs and patience, boys, or skill, and seed, and sickle,