Riley Farm-Rhymes | Page 2

and the fodder's in the
shock!
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;?And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks
is through?With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and
saussage, too! ...?I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be?As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around
on ME--?I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin'
flock--?When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock!
WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES
In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and STAYS,?And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,?And you think of yer bare-foot days;?When you ORT to work and you want to NOT,?And you and yer wife agrees?It's time to spade up the garden-lot,?When the green gits back in the trees?Well! work is the least o' MY idees?When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees?Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in?In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please?Old gait they bum roun' in;?When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,?And the crick's riz, and the breeze?Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,?And the green gits back in the trees,--?I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,?The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-feathers o' Wintertime?Is all pulled out and gone!?And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,?And the swet it starts out on?A feller's forred, a-gittin' down?At the old spring on his knees--?I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun'?When the green gits back in the trees--?Jest a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--pleaseWhen?the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
WET-WEATHER TALK
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;?It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.--?When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,?W'y, rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents--?Although they're apt to grumble some--?Puts most theyr trust in Providence,?And takes things as they come--?That is, the commonality?Of men that's lived as long as me?Has watched the world enugh to learn?They're not the boss of this concern.
With SOME, of course, it's different--?I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all,?And didn't like the way things went?On this terrestchul ball;--?But all the same, the rain, some way,?Rained jest as hard on picnic day;?Er, when they railly WANTED it,?It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existunce, dry and wet?Will overtake the best of men--?Some little skift o' clouds'll shet?The sun off now and then.--?And mayby, whilse you're wundern who?You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,?And WANT it--out'll pop the sun,?And you'll be glad you hain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too--
They's too much wet, er too much sun,?Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:?And mayby, like as not, the wheat,?Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,?Will ketch the storm--and jest about?The time the corn's a-jintin' out.
These-here CY-CLONES a-foolin' round--?And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!--?And yit the corn that's wallerd down?May elbow up again!--?They hain't no sense, as I can see,?Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be?A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,?And lockin' horns with Providence!
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;?It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.--?When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,?W'y, rain's my choice.
THE BROOK-SONG
Little brook! Little brook!?You have such a happy look--?Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
curve and crook--?And your ripples, one and one,?Reach each other's hands and run?Like laughing little children in the sun!
Little brook, sing to me:?Sing about a bumblebee?That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
mumblingly,?Because he wet the film?Of his wings, and had to swim,?While the water-bugs raced round and
laughed at him!
Little brook-sing a song?Of a leaf that sailed along?Down the golden-braided centre of your current
swift and strong,?And a dragon-fly that lit?On the tilting rim of it,?And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.
And sing--how oft in glee?Came a truant boy like me,?Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
melody,?Till the gurgle and refrain?Of your music in his brain?Wrought a happiness as keen to him
as pain.
Little brook-laugh and leap!?Do not let the dreamer weep:?Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in
softest sleep;?And then sing soft and low?Through his dreams of long ago--?Sing back to him the rest he used to
know!
THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin'
locus' trees;?And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,?And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the
sly,?Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.?The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his
wings?And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;?And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,?And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they