94
COMMERCE.
He takes the statutes of the State of Maine,
His new brown coat, his golden-headed cane,
Kisses his children, bids his wife adieu,
And ere he knows it, half his journey's through.
With map unrolled, he leaves the village inn,
Looking like Fusbos when he conquers Finn;
Meets on his way some tiller of the ground,
Perhaps his own—who knows?—he's hale and sound.
The great man stops, the yeoman rolls his quid,
Nor doffs his beaver, as the landlord did.
"Are you employed, Sir, on the John Smith Farm?"
Our shopman asks, his anger waxing warm.
"They say John Smith owns yonder swamp down there,"
Replies the ploughman, straightening out his hair;
"But, as to farming, it is very clear,
He'll find more black snakes than potatoes here."
His new brown coat, his golden-headed cane,
Kisses his children, bids his wife adieu,
And ere he knows it, half his journey's through.
With map unrolled, he leaves the village inn,
Looking like Fusbos when he conquers Finn;
Meets on his way some tiller of the ground,
Perhaps his own—who knows?—he's hale and sound.
The great man stops, the yeoman rolls his quid,
Nor doffs his beaver, as the landlord did.
"Are you employed, Sir, on the John Smith Farm?"
Our shopman asks, his anger waxing warm.
"They say John Smith owns yonder swamp down there,"
Replies the ploughman, straightening out his hair;
"But, as to farming, it is very clear,
He'll find more black snakes than potatoes here."
O, short-lived bliss! the shopman looks around,
And finds his farm a tract of barren ground;
His forest trees to dwarfish shrubs decline,
His turrets vanish, nor can he divine
And finds his farm a tract of barren ground;
His forest trees to dwarfish shrubs decline,
His turrets vanish, nor can he divine
