Song of the Hoe

                                 I.

Thy shiny bowels of the earth, deep midst the rocks and clay

Give me unto the hands of man and start me on my way;

The smelter and the melting pot transform me into steel,

And then the forger crushes me beneath his iron heel.

I’m wacked and hammered into shape to suit the needs of man,

I’m ground and polished smooth as glass to carry out his plan;

And when he’s fashioned me to suit, for labor and for show,

I’m just a commonplace result, an unromantic hoe.

                     It was “whack, whack whack,”

                     Upon my head and back,

From iron slugs to bars of steel they pressed me hard and fast;

                     It was “grind, grind, grind,”

                     Till I was hot and blind,

Till I was fashioned smooth and bright, an implement at last.

                                 II.

In country store and city mart I’m put upon display,

And traders feel my polished blade and handle every day;

Men whack me on the grocer’s floor and bend my handle long,

And praise or criticize my shape in language weak or strong.

I’m featured at the county fairs and sold to masters new,

And rattle off to countrysides for labor there to do;

I’m hung upon a dusty beam until the break of morn,

When I am taken to the field amongst the dewy corn.

                     Then it’s “whack, whack whack,”

                     Along the dusty track,

Uprooting weed and trailing vine and stirring up the soil;

                     And it’s “scratch, scratch, scratch,”

                     Along the waving patch,

I am a blessing in the hands of men who have to toil.

                                 III.

I dig the bait for men who love to fish upon the stream,

I plant the garden for the man who has his summer dream;

I slay the countless hordes of weeds that try the souls of men,

I’m from the earth, and to the earth I soon return again.

I cover up the tender seed which man puts in the ground,

And then protect the fragile roots by shapely hill or mound;

I feed the helpless, hungry stock when winter winds blow chill

I feed, aye yes, I feed the world – it is my iron will.

                     Then it’s “whack, whack whack,”

                     Adown the row and back,

I give new life to root and stalk, I take the place of rain;

                     And it’s “scratch, scratch, scratch,”

                     All through the dusty patch,

Within the kitchen garden or upon the endless plain.

                                 IV.

I’m just an unromantic hoe, once bright as bright could be,

And I was put upon display, and traders fondled me;

But now I’m old and keen no more, my cutting edge is gone,

My face is rusty, handle bent, and I am most forlorn.

I’m standing in the corner now, midst junk long out of date,

And soon the earth will take me back into my former state;

But I have done my duty here, I am content to go,

I’ve kept the hungry world alive, although I’m but a hoe.

                     Then it’s “whack, whack, whack,”

                     Adown the beaten track,

Back to the bowels of the earth whence came I years ago;

                     And it’s “clip, clip, clip,”

                     I waver, fall and slip,

My usefulness is over now, I cannot hoe my row.

    

July 25, 1911