Classic Poem

He was a farmer up to date. He knew each why and how.
He had pink ribbons on his gate, and straw hats for each cow.
He also had a Morris chair a-fastened to his plough.

He had a phonograph to call the wandering kine at e'en,
And all the grass upon his lawns was freshly painted green —
A greener place than his I don't believe was ever seen.

Upon the scarecrow in the field he placed a beaver hat,
And on its feet were brand-new boots, each covered with a spat;
And where the scarecrow's stomach was looked prosperous and fat.

The farm-hands all wore jackets red, and worked with polished hoes,
And in the lapel of each coat was placed a Beauty Rose,
And little coons held parasols to shade each worker's nose.

The wheels of all his whirring wains were tied to gramophones
That sounded pretty waltzes, 'stead of noisy creaks and groans
When straining o'er the country roads of thank-ye-marms and stones.

At eve when sunset's lovely glow made all the sky a prism
He called the farm-hands with a horn and kept them free of schism
With little talks on " Simple Life, " " Sunshine, " and " Pragmatism. "

His horses he provided all with bedsteads made of brass,
And every pillow 'neath their heads was made of fresh-cut grass,
And those that couldn't sleep were lulled to rest with laughing-gas.

The pigs were scrubbed with Silver Dust, and white-washed white as snow,
And in each pen hung copies of rare paintings by Rousseau,
With here and there a Whistler, or a lithographed Corot.

His sheep were never sheared at all — marcelled was every hair,
And every ram upon the place had quite a polished air —
By proper treatment e'en a goat becomes quite debonair.

The bulls were up on etiquette, and if by day or night
You met them strolling in the fields were ever most polite —
I don't believe Lord Chesterfield was a more charming sight.

And so with everything he had. This farmer up to date
Had things as fine as fine could be from barn-yard to the gate —
His hay-scales e'en were covered with a wash of nickel-plate.

And though he seldom raised a bean, potato, or a pea,
He waxed as fat and prosperous as one could wish to be
Who tried to live the farmer's life, as did his wife and he;

For thousands came from far and wide, on foot, by train, a-wheel,
To see this wondrous farm of his, if it was truly real —
And these he charged ten dollars for a thirty-five cent meal,

Until his coffers waxed as fat as those of Mr. Guelph —
He simply rolled in silver, gold, and other kinds of pelf —
If so you don't believe it figure out the thing yourself.

And then besides he added much each month unto his means
By writing articles on Beets , and T HORNLESS L IMA B EANS ,
The which were snapped up eagerly, and used by magazines.

From all of which I gather in a general sort of way
Those folks are talking foolishly who rise them up to say
In accents full of sympathy that Farming doesn't pay.