Classic Poem

J EM rose this morn at seven o'clock,
Put on his waistcoat and his frock;
With appetite both quick and keen,
He ate his breakfast by the screen;
And mother thought, and so did I,
That he to work would shortly hie;
But no, he had a button lost,
And Jem sat down to count the cost.
'T was late when he began to whine,
And Dad and Will had reach'd the mine;
So he concluded in his ire,
To spend the morning by the fire.
When I came in, surprised to see
Poor Jemmy lift his eyes on me,
" Why don't you go to work, d' ye hear? "
" 'T was late, " said Jem, " and I sat here. "
And soon we both went out to plough.
Poor boy! methinks I see him now
With tearful eyes and trembling limb;
For work will not agree with him.
Bleak Boreas roar'd with might and main,
And shook poor Jem through every vein;
His cap was pull'd down in his eyes,
And his thick frock was such a prize.
With staggering step, and reft of glee,
He drove the red horse o'er the lea.
He watch'd the birds that flutter'd near,
Touch'd up his cap, distinct to peer,
And counted clods and bits of clay,
And drove by fits and starts away;
So that 't was hard the plough to guide,
And let it in the furrow slide.
When evening came we finish'd all,
And led the red horse to his stall;
And Jem, within the faggot's gleam,
Ate up his brown bread, milk, and cream.