THE FARMER'S WIFE.

Akaroa Mail and Banks Peninsula Advertiser, Volume I, Issue 59, 9 February 1877, Page 3

THE FARMER'S WIFE.

A PLEA. O! pity the farmer's wife, So early up in the morn — Scrubbing the pots and pans, Blowing the dinner horn. Feeding the callow chicks, Sitting the speckled hen, Plucking the old grey gooso, Slopping the pigs in the pen. Chasing the brindled cow Off the cabbage bed, Hurrying here, worrying there, Till she wishes she was dead. There is winter sewing to do, And ragged socks to mend ; The boy's old pants to patch, And maybe a baby to tend. When she folds her weary hands And hopes for a moment's peace, A voice calls out, " I wish my wife, You'd fetch me the waggon grease." When the day has finished its course And dies in its golden prime, She sees it not, she heeds it not, To her it is " milking time." Never a time to read, And learn what the world has done ; It is work, work, work, From rise until set of sun. When the pitiful night comes down, And she kneels to say her prayers, It is, " mother, I think I hear a rat In the pantry under the stairs." She is as slim as a piece of soap Rubbed on the washing board, Her shoulders have an awkward stoop Caught from their heavy load. Is there no balm in Gilead ? Is there no inventor there, Who'll make a machine to do the work And warrant it not to wear ? It must have nerves of steel, And muscles of iron bands, To stand the ceaseless " tread-mill trot," Of her busy feet and hands. — Weekly Southern Farmer