When Father Grinds His Scythe

                                           

                          John Hall Cone

When father starts to grind his scythe

     That is the time for me;

I’m just the strongest, nicest boy

     That he did ever see.

He says that I’m the smartest chap

     That ever yet was born;

When father starts to grind his scythe

     So early in the morn.

He wakes me up at break of day

     When haying time comes round;

He wakes me from a peaceful sleep,

     A rest both sweet and sound.

And if I do not hurry down

     The birch I quickly drawn,

When father starts to grind his scythe

     So early in the morn.

The stone rests ‘neath the apple tree,

     A box sits on the ground;

I set myself upon the box

     And turn the stone around.

And when he bears down good and hard

     I wish I ne’er been born;

When father starts to grind his scythe

     So early in the morn.

My hands get warm and blister some,

     But still I turn no less;

‘Tis better to be blistered there

     Than somewhere else, I guess.

And so I turn and turn and turn,

     Till all my strength is gone,

When father starts to grind his scythe

     So early in the morn.

Sometimes I sit upon the fence

     And long to go away;

Way off where ain’t no stones to turn

     And ain’t no scythe nor hay.

But then I s’pose the time would come

     I’d grow to be forlorn

And long to turn the stone again

     So early in the morn.

March 24, 1901