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Title: The Farmer
Author: Jared Barhite [
More Titles by Barhite]
Of war and love some poets sing,
And some of fame and glory,
But few there are a tribute bring
To him whose only story
Is written on the sterile soil
With hand of honest labor,
Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toil
More grand than gory sabre.
My muse will sing of such as these,
And claim a wreath of laurel,
To crown each sturdy Hercules
Whose only wish to quarrel,
Is with the forest and the field
To make them rich and fairer,
To make old mother earth to yield
Her fruits and flowers e'en rarer.
Let merchants in the busy marts
Think farmers are mere cattle,
But they who know the farmers' hearts
And of his earnest battle
With thorns and thistles scattered wide,
Like earth's destructive Neros,
Well know they are our country's pride--
Our Nation's greatest heroes.
The lily-fingered, pale-faced men
Who live by "A Profession,"
Need not despise the farmer, when
He makes some slight digression
Upon what they call etiquette;
For in his heart he's civil;
Though rough his hand, his brow asweat,
His heart is free from evil.
He toils from early morn till night,
Yet he is "Independent;"
For Nature's God defends the right,
And holds a crown resplendent
To place upon His honored child
Whose life is heavy laden,
But keeps a spirit undefiled
To enter into Eden.
* * * * *
Though brown and dusty be his garb
From wrestling with the soil,
The farmer is God's nobleman,
Made so, by honest toil.
[The end]
Jared Barhite's poem: Farmer
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