When he’d be suppin’ stout, he’d smoke his pipe,
A quietly sort and quiet he be, at peace.
He’d watch the world go by in all its hype,
But he of no concern, not in the least.
For he to while away, himself engage,
Where he would dwell in dreams of yesteryear,
When he did long to act upon a stage,
A part perhaps, in Oscar’s Windermere.
But he with horse and plough to till the land,
His father’s son, a farmer born was he,
So he remained at home, a helping hand,
No finer farmer he’d become to be.
And now, though old and worn he’d lay a bet,
Though still a dream; he’ll be an actor yet.