  Zeeke Bullard wuz a farmer of no great amount of worth, Tho’ his farm wuz well supplied with miles of rich, productive earth; Fer he owned three hundred acres, so his frien’s an’ neighbors sed, But he uster say thet money wuz a thing he never hed. He’d groan about his losses, an’ his scarcity of tin, An’ he of’en sed he wondered w’y his crops were all so thin; He’d set aroun’ frum morn till night till days an’ weeks ’ud pass, An’ talk about the way he’d lose his grain an’ garden sass. The ’tater bugs in multitudes ’ud come frum all aroun’, Till nothin’ in his Murphy patch wuz left abuv the groun’; Insects of all descriptions thronged aroun’ his garden beds, While worms with powerful appetites devoured his cabbage heads. The crows ’ud come day after day to steal his yaller corn, An’ dine on oats an’ barley till his fiel’s were nearly shorn, An’ acre after acre where his clover oughter grow, There wa’n’t but giant thistles pintin’ daggers high an’ low. An’ when his crops were harvested by bugs an’ worms an’ crows, An’ wintry blasts were comin’ on, his sons were void of clo’es; In spite of all the mendin’ thet his little wife could do, The toes an’ knees an’ elbows of his boys were peekin’ thro’. * * * * * A while ago I left thet place of farmin’ enterprise, An’ now my folks are livin’ ’neath the broad, blue western skies, An’ tho’ I ain’t a farmer I’m convinced there’s nothin’ made, Unless you work et farmin’, same ez any other trade. Weeds don’t need cultervatin’, but they grow up tall an’ stout, An’ you mus’ work to save the grain an keep the thistles out: You can’t loaf ’round frum morn till night an’ talk the hull day thro’, For yer crops’ll go to ruin jest ez surely ez you do. * * * * * I’ve jest received a letter frum an ol’-time friend of mine, Who sed poor Zeeke wuz dwellin’ where bright crowns of glory shine; He’d quit the farmin’ business an’ wuz free frum worl’ly harm, While his seven sons were lef’ to raise the mortgage on his farm. |
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