Excellent new song called the farmer's glory

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Excellent new song called the farmer's glory  (1771) 

An Excellent New

SONG:

CALLED THE

Farmer’s Glory.

Excellent new song called the farmer's glory - Title.png








Printed by J. Chalmers & Co. Caſtleſtreet Aberdeen.









THE LARMERS GLORY, &c.

Come all ye merry Plowmen,
Of courage ſtout and bold,
Who labours all the winter,
Through wind, rain, and cold,
To clothe our fields with plenty
And barn yards to renew
And crowns them with contentment,
That holds the painful plow.
Of all the occupations
And trade of every kind,
Through all manured nation,
There is not one I find,
More uſeful in their ſtation
You’ll find I ſpeak its true,
Nor is there one ſo ancient
As is the painful plow.
Hold plowman ſaid the gard’ner
Count not your trade like ours,
But walk ye through the garden,
And view the early flowers;
See every curious border,
And pleasant walks review?
There’s no ſuch piece of pleaſure
Performed by the plow.
A paradise of pleaſure,
A garden is you know,
In Eden was a garden,
Five thouſand years ago;
And Adam was a gard’ner,
Juſt when he was made new,

So our trade is more ancient,
Than is the painful-plow.
Then ſaid the jolly plowman,
No calling I deſpiſe,
For each man has his living,
Upon his trade relies;
And Adam was a gard’ner,
Which he has cauſe to rue,
For ſoon he loſt the garden.
And went to hold the plow.
He had the whole tutation,
Of every thing was there,
Except the tree of knowledge,
Whoſe fruit appeared ſo fair,
That nothing elſe could pleaſe him,
Of all the fruit that grew,
For which he loſt the garden,
And went to hold the plow
Tho’ Adam in the garden,
Was ſet to keep it right,
Let tell me how long ſtaid he,
For I think not one night,
He eat not of his labours,
But what was not his due,
So was put from the garden,
And ſent to held the plow.
Old Adam was the plowman,
When plowing was begun,
The next that him ſucceeded;
Was Cain his eldeſt ſon,
Some of each generation,
This calling doth purſue,

That bread might not be wanting,
I mean the painful plow.
There’s none that knows the plowman,
I think will him diſdain,
Who toils all kinds of weather,
Each trade for to maintain,
And were it not for the plowman,
Both rich and poor would rue,
For we have all dependance,
Upon the painful plow.
Theſe noble kings and princes,
Who do delight in wars,
Will for ſome ſmall pretences,
Raiſe up great blood and jars,
For which they’ll raiſe great armies
Their purpoſe to purſue,
Yet thoſe you know are maintained,
By virtue of the plow.
Tho’ Samſon was a ſtrong man
And Solomon was wiſe,
Alexander for to conquer
Was all that he did prize.
King David he was valiant,
And many thouſands slew,
Yet none of theſe great heroes,
Can live without the plow,
You ſee the wealthy merchants
Who trades to far countries,
And ventures all their ſubſtance,
Upon the roaring ſeas,
They live like Indian princes,

Who range the roaring ſeas,
To bring home foreign treaſure,
To thoſe who live at eaſe.
With fine ſilk from the Indies,
With paper ſilk and blue,
Yet all these ſhips for bread depends,
Upon the painful plow.
Tea, paper and tobacco
That’s uſeful in their kind,
Are all brought from the Indies,
By virtue of the wind,
But yet the men that brings them,
Will own to what is true,
They cannot ſail the ocean,
Without the help of the plow.
They muſt have beer and biſket,
Rice pudding flour and peaſe
To feed the jovial Sailors
Upon the roaring ſeas.
Likewiſe they muſt have cables,
With ropes and ſails anew;
And things like thoſe we cannot have,
But by the painful plow,
The gentry of great Britain,
With Ireland, France, and Spain,
The Turk and his Seraglio,
And all his gorgeous train,
And every new plantation,
With Pagan, Turk, and Jew,
There’s none of them can live without
The virtue of the plow.

Nor can our own tradeſmen live,
If we conſider right,
The maſon, ſmith and weaver,
The taylor and the wright
The miller has no corn to grind,
Nor could he take his due,
But him and thouſands you will find,
Depend upon the plow.
You ſee the curious bakery
Who daily doth ſupply,
Our cities with great plenty,
Of bread both wheat and rye,
Appearing white like angels,
When in their common hue,
Yet they can get no flour to bake
Without help of the plow,
The maltſter and the ale wives,
On other doth depend,
Were’t not ſuch occupation,
Exciſemen would not ſend,
But if we had not maltſters,
No ale our wives could brew
Yet none of all thoſe callings
Can live without the plow.
But here’s a great vexation,
Which makes our ſpirits fail,
A heavy new taxation,
Come on our wives’s ale,
So thin it only makes us piſs,
I mean the ale they brew,
’Tis weak enough, but yet for this,

We need not blame the plow.
For we have malt and barley,
With plenty of each grain;
And if our ale be weakly,
The leſs it harms our brain,
We’ll get but little beef or cheeſe,
And cloaths we’ll get but few,
So we must learn to be content.
With what ſprings from the plow
Such things is now become so dear,
Beef, mutton, wool, and cheeſe,
Great men for ſuch commodities
Can juſt have what they pleaſe,
The poor no meat nor cloaths,
Nor any thing that’s new,
For every thing gives double price,
But what ſprings from the plow.
We hear from diſtant nations,
Of wars by land and ſea,
Still making preparations,
Striving for monarchie.
Still making new encroachments,
Upon each others due,
While we are glad to live in peace,
With what ſprings from the plow.
Three mighty powers in Europe,
Againſt us do advance,
Led by the crafty motions of
That reſtleſs Fox of France.
May heavens ſend aſſiſtance,
To quell that reſtleſs crew,

And us the true enjoyment,
Of what ſprings from the plow.
May heavens ſend proſperity
And long live our king,
For we’ve had many peaceful days
And plenty in his reign
And may our foes by George’s ſword
Be glad for peace to ſue
And let us ſay with one accord,
God ſpeed the painful plow.
I hope there’s none offended,
At me for ſinging this,
For it is not intended
For to be ta’en amiſs,
If ye conſider rightly,
You’ll ſay ’tis all but true,
All trades that I have mentioned
Lives by the painful plow.

FINIS.









[Printed by J. Chalmers & Co. Caſtleſtreet Aberdeen.]









This work was published before January 1, 1927, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.