The “Dear Old Farm”

They write about the “dear old farm”, in yards and yards of verse.

I know of naught a subject now that could be any worse.

What is the “dear old farm”, pray tell, which poets e’er embrace,

This way-back, lifeless, out of date, old-fashioned, hum-drum place?

The “dear old farm” they sing and sing in ballads full of fire;

The “dear old farm”, the echo comes from off Parnassus’ lyre.

The “dear old farm”, the dreamer sighs, and every day is writ,

A thousand lines of tender verse in loving praise of it.

I’ve lived upon a “dear old farm”, and I can hardly see

Why poets should be lauding it to such a high degree;

There’s nothing there but miles of woods where birds sing all the day,

And pastures on the sunny slopes where little lambkins play;

There’s nothing there but miles of space where breezes sweet and mild

Float over from the meadow lands with flowers growing wild;

There’s nothing but a river there, reflecting nature’s face,

A winding stream of no account, a gleam of liquid space.

There’s nothing there but fields of corn, and rye and waving wheat,

With music of the droning bees who sip the honey sweet;

There’s nothing there but orchards full of fruit trees bending low,

And lanes where lovers seek the shade till evening’s afterglow.

There’s nothing there but rest and peace, where old age looks behind,

Across the years of honest toil with well contented mind.

And so I cannot understand what poets see to charm

Them into writing yards of verse about the “dear old farm”.

Jan. 28, 1900

Pub. in Puck, Apr. 4, 1900