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Poem
March 14, 1863
Dollar Weekly Mirror And New Hampshire Journal Of Agriculture
Manchester, Hillsboro County, New Hampshire
What is this article about?
A song praising the virtuous, fulfilling life of farmers who toil the land and aid the starving, contrasting it with the weary existences of lawyers, merchants, and doctors, while honoring the plow and the press.
Clipping
OCR Quality
98%
Excellent
Full Text
THE WEEKLY MIRROR
A FARMER'S SONG.
We envy not the princely man,
In city or in town;
Who wonders whether the pumpkin vines
Run up the hill or down:
We care not for his marble halls,
Nor yet his heaps of gold
We would not own his sordid heart
For all his wealth twice told.
We are the favored ones of earth,
We breathe pure air each morn,
We sow—we reap the golden grain—
We gather in the corn;
We toil—we live on what we earn:
And more than this we do,
We hear of starving millions round.
And gladly feed them too.
The lawyer lives on princely fees,
Yet drags a weary life:
He never knows a peaceful hour—
His atmosphere is strife.
The merchant thumbs his yard stick o'er-
Grows haggard at his toil.
He's not the man God meant him for—
Why don't he till the soil?
The doctor plods through storm and cold
Plods at his patient's will;
When dead and gone he plods again
To get his lengthy bill.
The printer, (Bless his noble soul,)
He grasps the mighty earth,
And stamps it on our welcome sheet,
To cheer the farmer's hearth.
We sing the honor of the plow,
And honor of the press-
Two noble instruments of toil;
With each a power to bless.
The bone and nerve of this fast age,
True wealth to human kind-
One tills the ever generous earth,
The other tills the mind.
A FARMER'S SONG.
We envy not the princely man,
In city or in town;
Who wonders whether the pumpkin vines
Run up the hill or down:
We care not for his marble halls,
Nor yet his heaps of gold
We would not own his sordid heart
For all his wealth twice told.
We are the favored ones of earth,
We breathe pure air each morn,
We sow—we reap the golden grain—
We gather in the corn;
We toil—we live on what we earn:
And more than this we do,
We hear of starving millions round.
And gladly feed them too.
The lawyer lives on princely fees,
Yet drags a weary life:
He never knows a peaceful hour—
His atmosphere is strife.
The merchant thumbs his yard stick o'er-
Grows haggard at his toil.
He's not the man God meant him for—
Why don't he till the soil?
The doctor plods through storm and cold
Plods at his patient's will;
When dead and gone he plods again
To get his lengthy bill.
The printer, (Bless his noble soul,)
He grasps the mighty earth,
And stamps it on our welcome sheet,
To cheer the farmer's hearth.
We sing the honor of the plow,
And honor of the press-
Two noble instruments of toil;
With each a power to bless.
The bone and nerve of this fast age,
True wealth to human kind-
One tills the ever generous earth,
The other tills the mind.
What sub-type of article is it?
Song
Pastoral
What themes does it cover?
Moral Virtue
Satire Society
Nature Seasons
What keywords are associated?
Farmers Song
Rural Virtue
Satire Professions
Honor Plow
Press Praise
Poem Details
Title
A Farmer's Song.
Key Lines
We Are The Favored Ones Of Earth,
We Breathe Pure Air Each Morn,
We Sow—We Reap The Golden Grain—
We Gather In The Corn;
We Sing The Honor Of The Plow,
And Honor Of The Press