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.