Marshall County Republican. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1856-1878, 1873-11-06
OLD FARMER BROWN.
BY EUGENE ]. HALL.

From the harvest-held, old Farmer Brown came
home with a look of care
He threw his hat the floor, and sat down in his
old splint-bottoIaed chair,
He wiped the sweat from his dripping brow, and
pulled ont his old jack-knife;
He whitfield away to himself awhile. and called to
his little wife.
From her quaint ana tidy kitchen, she through
the open door,
With her sleeves pinned up to her shoulders and
her skirt pinned up before.
Shelooked faded, wrinkled and worn as the folds
of her gingham-gown,
When she wv the haggsrd and hopeless look on the
face of Farmer Brown.
THEN down in her rockingham she sank, in sort
No spoke one word but listened and looked to hear
what he might say.
~Hannah, I'm sick alvin here, an a-workin' from
spring to fall
A-raisn Eaters an corn 70 sell, that don't bring
Here we have worked together for forty years ike
pair of slaves,
An that old mortgage Amt lifted yet that owe to
Gideon Graves.
That judgment-note O. Deacon Dunn's will soon be
faliin' due,
An where the moneys a-cemin' from, why, 1 can't
Pm KEEP. in sech worry an fret by all of these sort
o. things,
That have to Sef the stun that raise right on Tor
what it brings.
1t costs so much for my taxes now an to keep the
wolf away,
That haven't no chance to make cent, an that is
what's to pay.
Hannah we've both ON Us grown old, an our chill
dren all are gone;
There is now that Il left al nome Tor us 10
depend upon.
amt as strong as used 70 be, nor able to work.
know;
Blu. I've got to set these matters square, an the
farmu have to go.
"Half O. the world lives idle with plenty to eat an
wear,
An the ones who work the hardest have often the
least to spare.
The farmers work til their forms bent an their
hands are hard an brown;
The wOrkmen deve in the dust an smoke O. the
workshops in the town;
The sturdy sailors bring TO shores the wealth o
An the other half o. the world subsists by the work
o. these hardened hands.
An this Is o the reasons why can't pay what
While you an are a-gettin' old, an the farmn have
to go.
"I'ye worked in the woods in the winter-time, I've
plowed an sowed in the spring,
I've hoed and dug through summer and fall, an
haven't made a thing.
Sometimes lie awake all night an worry, an fuss,
an fret.
An never a SINGLE wink o. sleep nor bit o. rest
think O our grown-up children, an the life they've
Jest begun;
They've goI to hoe the same hard row as you and 1
have done.
think o the politicians, an the way they rob an
An, the more think o. farnln the poorer it makes
me feel.
The spectators buy up cheese, butter, our
wool an hay,
An they sell 'en again for prem twice much
they had to pay.
They bleed IN transpo tation, they fleece us
everywhere,
They cheat us on our provisions an the very clothes
wear.
They ve in their lofty houses on the best that
be found,
Their wives dazzlin' diamonds, an their chill
3ren loaf around;
In The summer they go to the seashore an the
springs to make show,
An that is the way our butter an cheese an our
corn an taters go.
1--WE work in the sun all summer, raise turnips an
shares,
That the railroads an politicians may cheat us an
put orr airs.
They carry the reins o. power an viii till fill
graves:
They rule an ruin the markets, an pack o.
slaves
What's to be done? God only knows. I've failed
in many ways
In tryin' to lay leetle by to my declinin'
DAYS.
Inever have been shiftless man I've fggered !;
I've worked an tried,
While the Old farms been a-runnin down since the
day father died.
I've borrowed money TO pay my debts an I've
watched the interest grow.
TIL It fairly got the start o. me, an the farm have
to co.
Then the little wife of Farmer Brown stood ND upon
And she looked at him in a kind of way that she
never had before.
The burrows fed from her shriveed cheeks and her
face grew all aglow,
HInereT viii sign the Deed John, an the farm shall
Beuer go.
There's Jest thing to be done, sure as you an
are born;
You must join the GRANGE an rote. John, if you
would sell your corn.
Hope an prayer good, John, for the who
digs an delves,
But Heaven will never help Us, John, unless we help
ourselves.
Amt as clipper an smart an spry, strong
as used to be,
But I've got heap o. spunk John, when it's started
up III me-"
9ver the old mans furrowed face the tears began to
flow.
He never had felt proud and strong since their
wedding long ago;
golden CLEAN of heavenly hope iumined his souls
despair,
And, kneelirg down on the time-worn floor, both
bowed cir heads in prayer.
Our Preside Friend.