POET'S CORNER.

Oamaru Mail, Volume IV, Issue 1003, 8 July 1879, Page 4 (Supplement)

POET'S CORNER.

A BRITISH FARMER'S THOUGHTS AND AFTER THOUGHTS. I'm an old British fanner, and "Hereford bred," Though I've ne'er a white face, nor yet horns 011 my head. I live quiefc and snug, on a sizable farm ; And to never a neighbor I wish any harm. Time was when, from Eunrise till close of the day, My spirits were good, as I paced the old way. But nowadays things are unlike what they were; If they rose from their graves how our fathers would stare. I once loved the life of a farmer, but now I'd as lief be a bullock, or horse at the plough; Yes, as well be a turnip, kolil-rabi, or swede, As go on leading the life that I lead. I remember the time when tight breeches and boots Was a good enough dress for a grower of roots ; My father afore me, and his afore him, Would have scorned to have put pantaloons on a limb.

But my Missus, slid she, on one Sunday last year, "You can't go to Church in those garments, my dear. No, John, I insist, to your room you'll go back, And put on a suit of respectable black." So now every Sunday I walk by her side, As black as a Bishop to humor her pride. My feelings, of course, I endeavor to smother; For when madam says one thing, who dare to say t'other. My daughters, Miss Emily, Susie, and Fanny, Have all been to school, and have learnt the the piannv: And what with their music, fine dresses, and learning, Won't tuck up their sleeves to do washing or churning.

Mv boys, Tom, and Dick ride in patent top boots, And 110 baccy will touch but cigars and cheroots ; At a glass of good beer they turn up their nose, For French stuff as sour as 'twere brew'd out of sloes! In long Ulster coats, like the men in the ark, They run up to town on the "spree" and the "lark;" The money they spend on their pleasure, I'm sure, Had better be spent on the farm in manure. Then the taxes and rates, win or lose all the same, There's the Income-tax Paper—l call it a shame ; Nay, it's worse than a shame, darned if 'tisnt a sin, To take Income-tax out, when there's nought coming in ! Two guineas a quarter's the price of good wheat; The market is full of American meat; Says my landlord, "If barley and wheat dosn't pay, Turn plougliland to grassland, and cultivate hay." But I think of the days which won't come back again When a farmer could get a good price for good grain ; When taxes and rates were what folks could , afford, And we didn't build schools just to please the .School Board.

I know what I'll do, I'll just pack up my kit, Sell my stock to my landlord, give notice to quit, And take children and wife—though, perhaps, they won't coine— Across the Atlantic to seek a new liome. Yes, I'm off, bag and baggage ! I'm tired of taxation, Free trade, strikes, and . unions, and cooperation. So I'll start for New York by the very next mail, And good-bye to Old England, roast beef, and good ale ! » * * * * Wait a bit! Like a farmer, my growl I have had About all I see going, or gone to the bad, But now my growl's over, to own I am free, Though things may be bad, that still worse they might be. We've had three hard years ; but how do I know But next may be good, and pay all the three owe ? I don't like high rates and School Board education ; But I dare say its all for the good o' the nation. My landlord's a trump, and my Missus she suits, Though she hasn't good taste in the matter of boots. Mv children, no doubt, are too fine for their dad, _ ) But young 'uns are young 'tins, and ours ain't so bad. Old England has faults ; but, from all that I hear, There are things in America wonderful queer ; So I'll sing "Rule Britannia!" and drink " Speed the plough !" And stick to the farm, as we've stuck to till now. —Punch.