The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1879-03-29 00:00:00

(From Punch.]

A BRITISH FARMER'S THOUGHTS
AND AFTERTHOUGHTS.
I'M an old British Farmer, and "Hereford bred,"
Though I've ne'er a white face, nor yet horns on my head.
I live quiet and snug, on a sizable farm:
And to never a neighbour I wish any harm.

Time was when, from sunrise 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, kohl-rabi, or swede,
As go on a leading the life that I lead.
I remember the time when tight breeches and boots
Was a good enough dress for a grewer of roots:
My father afore me, and his afore him,
Would have scorned to have put pantaloons on a limb.
But my Misses, says 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 humour her pride.
My feelings, of course, I endeavour to smother;
For when Madam says one thing, who dare to say Vother

My daughters, Miss Emily, Susie and Fanny,
Have all been to school, and have learnt the nanny;
And what with their music, fine dresses, and learning,
Won't tuck up their sleeves to do washing or churning.
My boys, Tom and Dick, ride in patent top-boots,
And no baccy will touch but cigars and cheroots;
At %glass of good beer they turn up their nose,
For French stuff as sour as 'twere brewed out of aloes!
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 'tisn't 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 doesn't pay,
Turn ploughland. 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 folk 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
come)—
Across the Atlantic to seek a new home.

Yes, I'm off, bag and baggage I I'm tired o' taxation,
Free-trade, strikes, and unions, and co-operation.
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 I 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 year may be good, and pay all the three owe?
I don't like high rates and School-Board education
But I daresay it's all for the good o' the Nation.
My Landlord's a trump, and my Missu,s she snits,
Though she hasn't good taste in the matter o' boots.
My children, no doubt, are too fine for their Dad,
But young 'uns are young 'uns, and oars 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.