Martinsburg herald. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1881-1920, 1891-06-13
Farmer Brown on Taxation.

1 The papers talk sight just now about
deserted farms,
1t seems as if them city chaps was
kinder up in arms
A-frettin at it, an they want to know
about the cause
! That's so upset the state of things an
altered nat raj laws
An Farmer Jones an l hez talked the
matter over sum,
Asst how it is that farming business
doesn't seem to hum,
Why the young men quit the farm, and
the shiftless hired man
Gobbles up the little profits, an idles
all he can
An Jones thinks just as l do, faint
because that farrnin lacks
OF a-bein' interestin, tbs the pesky
unjust tax.
We see a farmer pays tax on all the
land he owns,
Be it medder, intervale, woodlot or pas
tur' full of stones
They tax his meetin' wagon that has
weathered many gale,
And the dog that greets him every
night with friendly Vaughn tail,
An his sheep, an hogs, an horses,
his house, an shop, an barn
Why bless your soul they even tax
the mortgage on his farm
They only spare the fowls he keeps, an
that, my thoughtful friends.
l expect is why so many men hez
tackled onto hens
But they say the Legislator is a-talkin'
of tax
On them, an then all that's untaxable
will be the cats
When the shoe firm comes to town
we must let EN- in scot free.
For ten or twenty years to come, Just
as the case may be,
Because the politicians say business
will take a boom.
An the farmer can't raise half that
the workmen will consumer
An we swaller down the story an look
vainly for the day
When we'll git Twin profit for our
butter, beef an hay.
Meanwhile the manufacturer that's
nVln on = exempt,
III luxury the likes Of which the far
ners never drempt.
Keeps his 2;2o trotting nags to speed on
fashion S tracks,
An the farmer drives a spawned mare,
and pays the rich man s tax
The man as holds the mortgages on
luckless Western farms,
He puts the papers in his safe, and
calmly folds his arms,
The fortin' that's invested in stocks,
an bonds, an shares,
That he's scrabbled up in Wall street,
iightin' with the bulls and bears,
The notes that's due him, an the ready
cash he's got in hand.
Who's a-goin' to know erbout it j?
Who's a-goin to understand
If the little list he swears to is false as
rot, or true
Will some bright scholar tell us what |
the assessor mans to do
There ant nobody that can git for
sartin at the facts,
And that man he snaps his finger
when he pays his little tax
Why, the churches has ketched onto it
the Baptist here in town
Hez got their surplus gatherings in
houselots sailed down,
An the Congregational brethren, so |
hear the woman say,
Own twenty thousand dollars worth of
land at Lobster Bay;
An the Methodists, they are thrifty,
an they've got business block,
Built by surplus contributions from the
faithful of the flock,
But you see this is church property
an we can't tax that, you know,
Nor the water works, an gas, an
that's the way things go
But the farmer he must pinch his way,
and sell some needed hay
TO raise his portion of the tax the
>churches ought to pay
You want to know the remedy? Well
farmer Jones an |
Have come to the conclusion that we've
got to fight or die
In union there is strength, they say, so
let us organize,
And stick together, sink or swim, and
never compromise?
Vote for the man that will stan by us,
whether East or West.
There's enough of us to do it, an let s
90 it with a will.
Let us lift those cruel burdens from so
many toll bent backs,
An make the rich man pay his just
proportion Of all tax.
CLARA AUGUSTA.