POETRY.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1051, 9 November 1877, Page 3

POETRY.

THE INDEPENDENT FARMER. [From the “ Tasmanian Mail.”]] Let sailors sing of windy deep, Let soldiers praise their armour, But in my heart this toast I’ll keep— The independent farmer. When first the rose, in robe of green, Unfolds its crimson lining ; And round his cottage porch is seen The honeysuckle climbing ; When banks of bloom their sweetness yield To bees that gather honey. He drives his team aero s the held, When skies are soft and sunny. The blackbird clucks behind the ploughs, The quail pipes loud and clearly. You orchard hides behind its boughs The home he loves so dearly ; The gray and old barn-doors unfold, His ample store in measure. More rich than heaps of hoarded geld, A precious, blessed treasure ; While yonder in the porch there stands His wife, the lovely charmer, The sweetest rose on all his lands— The independent farmer. To him the spring comes dancingly, To him the summer blushes, The autumn smiles with yellow ray, His sleep old winter hushes. Ho cares not how the world may move, No doubts or fears confound him, His little dock is linked iu love, __ And household angels round him ; He trusts to God and lovqg his wife* Nor griefs or ill may harm hey. ~ He’s nature's nobleman in .. The indepcudcattohur.