WHAT WOULD THEY DO
37
'Tis not from the city—no, never! But from the free sunshine and air On the broad, verdant acres extending O'er the glorious country so fair.
Tis true that the city has pleasures, And aspirants to fashion and fame,—But yet, should you search the world over You'll find it is ever the same. 'Tis the toil-harden 'd hand of the farmer By which are the multitude fed,—Yea, the farmer—the "hard-handed" duffer, Who supplies the vast cities with bread.
'Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding The mid-summer sun and the rain,Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat And garners the golden grain. From the forests afar down the valley Or up over mountainous height Is sent timber for use in the city, And fuel to make the hearths bright.
The orchards, the fields and the mead lands Fraught with richness from West to the East Send forth to the homes in the city Rich viands and fruits for the feast.
