Septimus Winner

The Song of The Farmer

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I have cattle that feed in the valley,
And herds that graze on the hill,
And I pride in the fruits of my labor,
For I'm lord of the land that I till;
I have plowed the rough hill and the meadow,
'Till feeble with age and with toil,
And I know before long that another,
Shall reap the fruits of the soil.


For the son that hath toil'd for me ever,
And faithfully stood by my side,
Hath a hand that shall gather the harvest,
When his feeble old father hath died,
And the daughter so kind to her mother,
Shall share with him all I posess,
For I feel that they love me as father,
And welcome my tender caress.


There's my faithful, my trusting companion;
My kindhearted, dear-loving wife,
I have toil'd for her comfort with pleasure,
For such was the pride of my life,
And still in my manhood I love her,
For her kind and affectionate care,
And all that the earth can afford me,
With her I mostly willingly share.

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