RURAL PROGRESS; OR WE'RE LIVIN' 'MOST IN TOWN by WILLIAM STEWARD GORDON

So you're sorry for us fellows
With the hayseed in our hair,
As you see the world's procession
Leave us hangin' in the air!

And you think I'd trade this homestead
For a little "fifty feet"
Down among the dingy buildin's
At the foot of Market Street?

Now I want to tell you, stranger,
While my dinner settles down,
That us farmers in the country
Are a-livin' 'most in town.

Why the horses used to caper
When they saw a little bike,
Like they thought "Old Nick" himself
Was a-ridin' up the pike.

Now, when they meet an auto,
As it's puttin' on the style
On our gilt-edged granite highway,
They seem to kind o' smile,

Like they think it must be winded,
As its breathin' is so loud,
And they wonder if it's rattled
From the racket o' the crowd.

And we get your city daily
By the handy R. F. D.,
While the Mexicans are chasin'
One another up a tree.

And John is in the college—
How it stirs a father's pride!
For he's captain of the football,
And takes learnin' on the side.

And Mary's takin' music—
(Now she calls herself Marie),
And has all the variations
As far as I can see.

And we have the very preacher
That last year preached for you,
For he's restin' in the country,
Just as others ought to do.

We are phonin' to the neighbors,
And a motor line's projected,
And they'll fire a "wireless" at us
If we are not soon protected.

And we're raisin' coreless apples
To take with us to the fair,
And we'll harness up our trotters
And will beat the motor there.

But when we're tired of tumult
And a-campin' on "The Trail,"
We will strike for clover blossoms
And the pipin' of the quail.

And while eatin' Jersey butter
And a-layin' in the shade
We will pity that poor fellow
That was anxious for a trade.

I want to tell you, stranger,
While my dinner settles down,
That us farmers up the valley
Are a-livin' 'most in town.

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