Saturday On The Farm.

'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright By nature's own endowing; The sun is fiercely giving light, And only me— Plowing. Across the river I hear the sound Of a boatman slowly rowing; I have no time to fool around, Especially when I'm— Hoeing. And when the dinner hour has come, And thoughts of work are fleeting, I only hear the insects hum, Because I'm busy— Eating. At night when all things are at rest, Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping, No troubles do my mind infest, For I am soundly— Sleeping.