  Of war and love some poets sing, And some of fame and glory, But few there are a tribute bring To him whose only story Is written on the sterile soil With hand of honest labor, Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toil More grand than gory sabre. My muse will sing of such as these, And claim a wreath of laurel, To crown each sturdy Hercules Whose only wish to quarrel, Is with the forest and the field To make them rich and fairer, To make old mother earth to yield Her fruits and flowers e'en rarer. Let merchants in the busy marts Think farmers are mere cattle, But they who know the farmers' hearts And of his earnest battle With thorns and thistles scattered wide, Like earth's destructive Neros, Well know they are our country's pride— Our Nation's greatest heroes. The lily-fingered, pale-faced men Who live by "A Profession," Need not despise the farmer, when He makes some slight digression Upon what they call etiquette; For in his heart he's civil; Though rough his hand, his brow asweat, His heart is free from evil. He toils from early morn till night, Yet he is "Independent;" For Nature's God defends the right, And holds a crown resplendent To place upon His honored child Whose life is heavy laden, But keeps a spirit undefiled To enter into Eden. Though brown and dusty be his garb From wrestling with the soil, The farmer is God's nobleman, Made so, by honest toil. |
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