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THE POETRY OF FARM LIFE
[Welland Tribune July 7, 1905]
What wonder that the poets of this prosy age regret
That themes for making posey are now so hard to get.
Those pleasant rural pictures which for years employed the pen
Of poets have been crowded out to never come again.
The weary plowman never ore shall plod his weary way.
He rides a sulky-like affair-a jockey trim and gay.
The sower scattering the seeds afield no more is seen,
For that, like all other work, is done by a machine.
The Scythe the mower used to swing is rusting in the shed.
A hired man now whacks the mules that do the work instead,,
The merry cradlers in the wheat we can no more discern,
The job they had they yielded to a patent right concern.
The joly thrasher, with his flail, upon the old barn floor-
He, too has left the country, for his usefulness is o’er.
With others he was pushed aside and forced to clear the way
For mechanism, dull and dry, that rules the land today.
Since nearly every task is done by steam or horse,
Toil, as a poet’s these, has grown too practical of course.
Wherever we may turn there’s nought but mechanism seen.
And even poetry like this is made by a machine.
-Chicago Mail.
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