Trials of the Farmer

I want to be a farmer And with the farmers stand— A whetstone in my pocket, A blister on my hand.

I sing to be a farmer, Without the right of way Across my neighbor’s lot to drive My ox-cart or my sleigh.

I long to be a farmer And own a breachy mare, That oft will leap the bound’ry line, And make my neighbors swear.

I pine to be a farmer And own a kicking steer, That I may feel his horny heel Whenever I draw near.

I sigh to be a farmer And plant my field of corn, That crows may flock and pull it up Before the streak of morn.

I shout to be a farmer: How much I would adore To drive a big and stubborn pig Some five miles or more.