Posts Tagged ‘Farmers’

True Blue

November 26, 2012

Image from Going on 80

True Blue
The farmer may have whiskers, but
He is no Bolshevik,
The Reds they cannot fool him with
A propaganda trick,
He’ll never be a Socialist,
Or join the Trotzky clan;
He will remain just what he is,
A good American.

They’ve tried to win him over to
Defy his country’s law,
But farmer man just shakes his head
And firmly sets his jaw.
By heck, they cannot make him budge,
He is not built that way,
He’s a good and solid backer,
Of the old U.S.A.

They cannot get him out on strike
To plow and hoe the sticks;
He is agin’ all Anarchists,
All Reds and Bolsheviks.
So here is to the Farmer Man
With hayseed in his hair;
As true and good American
As you’ll find anywhere.

— Brooklyn Standard-Union.

Olean Evening Times (Olean, New York) Nov 18, 1919

Easter Parade

April 4, 2012

Gold Braid is Coming Back in Europe

American Farmers are Wearing a Heavy Coat of Dust

International Diplomats May Wear Track Suits

TAXPAYERS’ POCKETS ARE BEING WORN THINNER

Daily News ( Huntingdon, Pennsylvania) Apr 16, 1935

Rhyming Decapitations

December 5, 2010

No.230. — Rhyming Decapitations.

In front we see a railroad _____,
Near by a farmer, team and _____.

A quarter of an hour _____
The train was due, yet on they _____.

The train, though late, yet still was _____;
Its sound soon fell upon his _____.

His eye beheld a smoky _____;
He heard the whistle sounding _____.

His horses stopped, o’ercome with _____,
And moved to neither left nor _____.

The engineer shut off the _____
And saved collision with the _____.

The farmer had a fearful ____,
And he henceforth will use more _____.

The Evening News (Lincoln, Nebraska) Sep 2, 1893

Till We Cease Our Cry for Bread

October 23, 2010

The Farm Supports All.

Does the farmer dig the dirt?
Aye, Aye;
Does he wear a coarse shirt?
Aye, Aye;
And if his cheek is brown
With the kisses of the sun,
Is he less a gentleman?
Nay, Nay.

Does the farmer plow and sow?
Aye, Aye;
Does he wield the spade and hoe?
Aye, Aye;
And if his hand is hard,
And his feet be roughly shod,
Shall we give him less respect?
Nay, Nay.

Does the farmer work for all?
Aye, Aye;
Labors he for great and small?
Aye, Aye;
If from out the farmers store
Comes the bread for rich and poor,
Should we honor him the more?
Yea, Yea.

Give the farmer then his due —
Aye, Aye;
Though he SERVES, HE’S MASTER, TOO —
Aye, Aye;
And may Heaven its blessings shed
Down upon the farmer’s head,
‘Till we cease our cry for bread —
Aye, Aye.

MYRA MYRTLE.

Cedar Falls Gazette (Cedar Falls, Iowa) Apr 6, 1860

Since Hanner Died

October 22, 2010

The Widowed Farmer.

Since Hanner died the sun don’t shine so bright,
The stars don’t twinkle near so keen at night,
The church bell Sunday mornin’ an’t the cheer
It had when she was here.
Since Hanner died.

The very chickens misses Hanner’s care,
And go ’round with a sorter lonesome air,
There an’t no kind of joy about the place
Without her smilin’ face.
Since Hanner died.

The garden tools hang in the apple trees,
The hossweeds are a-killin’ off the peas;
There’s no one here to hoe the taters now,
Er feed the hogs an’ cow.
Since Hanner died.

I s’pose, of course, I’d orter be resigned,
But when I go out in the shed and find
The ax she chopped the wood with all them years,
I wet it with my tears,
Since Hanner died.

— Robley D. Stevenson, in N.Y. Sun.

The Ohio Democrat (New Philadelphia, Ohio) Oct 4, 1894

Laboring Poetry

September 7, 2009

Poetry for Labor Day:

Image from Life Magazine

Song of the Factory Girl.

BY JOHN H. WARLAND.

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
So merry and glad and free!
The bloom on her cheeks, of health how it speaks,
Oh a happy creature is she!
She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And cheerfully toileth away —
Mid the din of wheels, how her bright eyes kindle,
And her bosom is ever gay!

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
Who hath breathed our mountain air,
She toils for her home and the joys to come
To the loved ones gathered there!
She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And she fancies her mother near —
How glows her heart, and her bright eyes kindle
As she thinks of her sister dear.

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
Who no titled lord doth own,
Who with treasures more rare, is more free from care,
Than a Queen upon her throne!
She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And she parts her glossy hair,
I know by her smile, as her bright eyes kindle,
That a cheerful spirit is there!

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
Whose task is easy and light —
She toileth away till the evening gray,
And her sleep is sweet and light —
She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And, oh, she is honest and free —
I know by her laugh, as her bright eyes kindle,
That few are more happy than she!

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
As she walks her spacious hall,
And trims the rose and the orange that blows,
In the window, scenting all.
She tends the loom and watches the spindle,
And she skips in the bracing air —
I know by her eyes, as their bright lights kindle,
That a queenly heart is there!

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
Link not her name with the SLAVE’S;
She is brave and free, as the old elm tree
Which over her  homestead waves.
She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And scorns the laugh and the sneer,
I know by her lip, as her bright eyes kindle,
That a FREE-BORN spirit is here!

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
Whose fabric doth clothe the world,
From the king and his peers to the jolly tars
With our flag o’er all seas unfurl’d,
From China’s gold seas, to the tainted breeze
Which sweeps the smokened rooms
Where “God save the Queen,” to cry are seen,
The slaves of the British looms.

Oh sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
The honest and fair and true —
Whose name has rung, whose deeds been sung,
O’er the land and waters blue.
She tends the loom, and watches the spindle,
And her words are cheerful and gay —
Oh, give me her smile, as her bright eyes kindle,
And she toils and sings away!

God bless our Yankee Factory Girls!
The girls of our mountain wild!
Like a merry hind, shall their song be heard,
Where’er sweet Labor has smiled.
From our forests green, where the axe hath been,
And the waters dance in the sun —
Through New England’s clime, to the thunder chime
Of the surging Oregon! —

[Asylum Gazette.]

Huron Reflector (Norwalk, Ohio) Jun 2, 1846

Image from www.victorianweb.org/history/work/blacksmith.html

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

BY H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Under a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sets among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like his Mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must thinks of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.

Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing —
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted — something done —
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning Deed and Thought.

Republican Compiler (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Jun 21, 1847

A "Begrimed" Engineer

Image and Cobeen family history can be found HERE.

THE ENGINEER.

Ah! who ever thinks of the bold engineer,
As he stands by his throttle of steel,
And spurs on his steed to its maddened career,
In its thundering and ponderous reel,
Like a soldier begrimed in battle’s dark strife,
And brave to the cannon’s hot breath.
He, too, plunges on with his long train of life,
Unmindful of danger or death!
Through the daylight,
Into the night,
Dark, dark.
He knows no affright,
O’er ridges
And bridges,
Decayed or strong,
Like a mystic God he rushed along!
Who thinks of the bold engineer?

So true to his post like a statue he stands,
With his eyes fixed fast on afar;
Our own precious lives he holds in his hands,
Our wealth we give to his care;
For good must he be, the bold engineer,
As he dashes from village to town,
And brings us all safe, ‘midst a smile or a tear,
To the forms so dearly our own!
Onward he goes,
His whistle he blows —
Deep, deep,
Through hight-drifted snows;
With crossings
And tossings,
In heat and in rain,
O’er the glitterings track he pulls the long train!
All hail to the bold engineer.

I love the brave man, though accidents come,
With their heart-rending anguish and woe;
Still foremost he rides, to whatever doom,
Like the form on a vessel’s bold prow.
And as he sweeps on like the wind through the land,
Away from “sweet home” and its charm,
For the sake of the “loved ones” and wife, may Thy hand,
Oh God, protect him from harm!
On doth he ride,
No dangers betide,
Swift, swift!
With bridesgroom and bride —
The tallest,
The smallest,
The rich and the poor,
All follow his path, o’er river and moor —
Long life to the bold engineer!

The Fitchburg Sentinel (Fitchburg, Mass.) Aug 13, 1870Image from www.yale.edu/fes519b/pitchpine /sitehistory.html

From the American Farmer

THE FARMER.

Of all pursuits by men invented,
The ploughman is the best contented,
His calling’s good, his profits high,
And on his labors all rely –Mechanics all by him are fed,
Of him the merchants seek their bread;
His hands give meat to every thing,
Up from the beggar to the king.The milk and honey, corn and wheat,
Are by his labors made complete.
Our clothes from him must first arise,
To deck the fop or dress the wise –We then by vote may justly state,
The ploughman ranks among the great;
More independent than them all,
That dwell upon this earthly ball.

All hail, ye farmers, young and old!
Push on your plough with courage bold;
Your wealth arises from your clod,
Your independence from your God.If then the plough supports the nation,
And men of rank in every station,
Let kings to farmers make a bow,
And every man procure a plough.

Republican Compiler (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Aug 17, 1825Image from http://www.hartford.gov/fire/

THE FIREMAN.

Amid the flames he stood,
And the white smoke formed his wreath,
And the swelling waves of the fiery flood
Came surging from beneath.

The crackling timbers reeled,
And the brands came gleaming down,
Like the scattered wealth that the forest yields
When their autumn leaves are brown.

The tempest howled in wrath,
And the fire wheeled madly on, —
And the embers far on the wind’s wild path,
Through the murky night, had gone.

Yet there, in his pride, he stood,
With a steady hand and strong;
And his axe came down on the burning wood,
Till the heart of the old oak rung.

There was many an earnest eye
Through the rolling smoke that gazed,
While he stood with his dauntless soul & high,
Where the hottest fire-brands blazed.

And prayers were faltered forth
From the aged and the young,
For the safety of many a household hearth
On the strokes of his strong arm hung.

There was many a proud knight there,
With his mantle round him rolled,
That aloof, in the light of that sweeping fire,
Stood shivering in the cold.

And oft, from the fireman’s bands,
A summons for aid was heard;
But never the tips of their well-gloved hands
From their ermined cloaks were stirred.

And no white and fervent lip
For their welfare or safety prayed;
For no children’s weal and mother’s hope
In the strength of their arms was stayed.

Were I searching earth’s mingled throng
For shelter, my claim would be
A hand, like that FIREMAN’s, nerved & strong,
And a fearless heart for me.

Ohio Repository, The (Canton, Ohio) May 8, 1845Image from www.virtualmuseum.ca

 

From the Knickerbocker.

Song of Labor: The Miner.

BY J. SWETT.

The eastern sky is blushing red,
The distant hill-top glowing;
The brook is murmuring in its bed,
In idle frolics flowing;
‘Tis time the pickaxe and the spade
And iron “tom” were ringing;
And with ourselves, the mountain stream
A song of labor singing.

The mountain air is cool and fresh;
Unclouded skies been o’er us;
Broad placers, rich in hidden gold,
Lie temptingly before us
Then lightly ply the pick and spade
With sinews strong and lusty;
A golden “pile” is quickly made,
Wherever claims are “dusty.

“We ask no magic Midas’ wand,
Nor wizard-rod divining;
The pickaxe, spade and brawny hand
Are sorcerers in mining;
We toil for hard and yellow gold,
No bogus bank notes taking;
The bank, we trust, though growing old,
Will better pay by breaking.

There is no manlier life than ours,
A life amid the mountains,
Where from the hillsides, rich in gold,
Are willing sparkling fountains:
A mighty army of the hills,
Like some strong giant labors
To gather spoil by earnest toil,
And not by robbing neighbors!

When labor closes with the day,
To simple fare returning,
We gather in a merry group
Around the camp-fires burning;
The mountains sod our couch at night,
The stars shine bright above us;
We think of home, and fall asleep
To dream of those who love us.

Mountain Democrat, The (Placerville, California) May 13, 1854

Show Him the Paper!

July 15, 2009

A short time ago some men were engaged in putting up telegraph poles on some land belonging to an old farmer, who disliked seeing his wheat trampled down. The men produced a paper by which they said they had leave to put the poles where they pleased.

The old farmer went back and turned a large bull in the field. The savage beast made after the men, and the old farmer seeing them running from the field, shouted at the top of his voice:

“Show him the paper! Show him the paper!”

Marble Rock Journal (Marble Rock, Iowa) May 25, 1905