He has the pull, and our bright to-days may be spiled by black to-morrers.
A cove like him with looks so grim, and flies, and such philistians,
Is no fair foe for farmer chaps as is mortial men and Christians.
Look at him damply glowering there with a eye like a hungry vulture!
With his blights at hand, and his floods to command, he's the scourge of Agriculture.
But howsomever, although he's clever, luck's all, and mine seems turning,
Oh! for a few more fair fine weeks, not swamped, nor yet too burning,
When the sun shines sweet on the slanting wheat, with the bees through the clover humming,
And us farmer chaps with a cheery heart will sing "There's a good time coming!"