They cop their share, and how they'll fare this year there ain't no knowing;
And peas is good, and hops is bad, or baddish. But, by jingo!
The sight o' the hay as I saw to-day is as good as a glass of stingo.
Pastures and meadows promise prime, well nigh the country over,
Though them as depend on their clover-crop will hardly be in clover.
But take 'em all, the big and small, the cereals, roots, and grasses,
There's a lump o' cheer for the farmers' hearts, and the farmers' wives and lasses;
If only him I'm playing against—well, p'r'aps I'd best be civil,—
If he isn't Jemmy Squarefoot though, he has the luck o' the divil.
With his rain and storm and cold and hot, and his host of insect horrors,