Saturday On The Farm.

A poem by Edwin C. Ranck

'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright
By nature's own endowing;
The sun is fiercely giving light,
And only me--
Plowing.

Across the river I hear the sound
Of a boatman slowly rowing;
I have no time to fool around,
Especially when I'm--
Hoeing.

And when the dinner hour has come,
And thoughts of work are fleeting,
I only hear the insects hum,
Because I'm busy--
Eating.

At night when all things are at rest,
Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping,
No troubles do my mind infest,
For I am soundly--
Sleeping.

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