IN a dingy little hovel Down beside a lonely meadow In the wet, There's a man that never hopes, Never thinks enough in life To forget. He's the owner of a cow, And a dog, In a log pen by his window There's a hog. He plants his corn beside the house, Near the door; Lets the weeds grow through the cracks On the floor. He lies upon his bunk at night Without fear; No matter how hard the wind blows, He doesn't care. He's forty summers old, and is Strong and fat; His chin and forehead are alike, Dark and flat. His coat and pants are slick with age, And his hat; A collar ne'er adorned his neck, Or cravat. To him the "rulers," "lords," and "kings" Are all dead; The weight of care has never fallen On his head. To ev'ry question filled with hope, He answers, "No"; I'm prone to think he's Markham's man Without the hoe. |