The Old Farmer's Elegy - An 1850 Poem
By J.D.C.; Gill, Mass.
- On a green mossy knoll, by the banks of the brook,
- That so long and so often watered his flock,
- The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep,
- While the waters a low, lisping lullaby keep;
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
-
- The blue-bird sings sweet on the gay maple bough,
- Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plow;
- And the robins above him hop light on the mould,
- For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold;
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
-
- Yon tree that with fragrance is filling the air,
- So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair,
- By his own hand was planted, and well did he say,
- It would live well when its planter mouldered awa;
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
-
- There's the well that he dug, with its water so cold,
- With its wet dripping bucket, so mossy and old
- No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn,
- For the 'pitcher is broken' the old man is gone!
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
- And the seat where he sat by his own cottage door,
- In the still summer eves, when his labors where o'er,
- With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand,
- Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land;
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
-
- Twas a gloom giving day when the old farmer died;
- The stout-hearted mourned, the affectionate cried;
- And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend,
- For they all lost a brother, a man, and a friend;
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
-
- For upright and honest the old farmer was;
- His God he revered, he respected the laws;
- Though fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth
- Will outshine, like pure gold, all the dross of this eart;
- He has plowed his last furrow, has reaped his last grain;
- No morn shall awake him to labor again.
October 5, 1850. Anti-slavery Bugle 6(4): 4. Issued at New Lisbon Ohio. From the Knickerbocker.