The farmer is a happy man,
His life is free from care,
With naught to make his spirit sad
Or make him want to swear;
All day among the cockle burrs
He gaily grubs and hoes,
And money never troubles him,
Unless 'tis what he owes.
How sweet at early dawn of day
To rise before the sun,
And hustle briskly round the barn
Till all the chores are done;
To feed the cows, and milk them, too,
In brightly shining pails,
The while they tread upon your corns
And thump you with their tails.
How sweet to hie into the field,
From breakfast smoking hot,
And chase a plough all day around
A forty acre lot,
And, when it strikes against a stone,
Drawn by the horses stout,
To have the handles prance around
And punch your daylights out.
How sweet at noon to lie at ease
Beneath some spreading tree,
And hold a secret session
With an ardent bumble bee,
And when your rheumatism makes
Your legs refuse to go,
How sweet to lie upon your back
And watch your mortgage grow.
And when the busy cares of day
Have faded with the light,
How sweet to lie in peaceful sleep
Throughout the dewy night,
And to hear the partner of your joys,
At the first faint tinge of dawn,
Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourself
The cows are in the corn."