The Farmer’s Welcome Home Poem by Robert Anderson

Do you know what it is makes me whistle and sing,
As I brush the bright dews away?
Do you know what it is makes me blithe as a king,
As I toil in the fields all day?
If you don't, why I'll tell you the cause of my joys;
When the grey hour of Evening's come,
'Tis the thoughts of my rosy--fac'd girls and boys,
Who welcome their father home.

On ent'ring, I'm quickly surrounded by all;
The youngest climbs up to my knee;
Tom sings a new song; Bess shows me her doll;
And Hannah brings food for me.
My wife turns her wheel; we cheerfully talk,
Nor fret about evils to come;
I taste joys, unknown to your gouty great folk--
Rosy health bids me welcome home!

My children I teach to pray and to read,
To do good, honour priest and the squire;
If my farm be but small, we no luxuries need,
It serves us; no more we desire!
I kill my own mutton; my wife brews good ale;
From my fields I have no wish to roam,
Except to the market, and then I ne'er fail
To meet a blithe welcome home.

Hannah reads in her bible, ere we go to rest;
The youngest lisps o'er her pray'rs;
I rise when the lark quits his cold dewy nest,
And leave them to sleep away cares:
Tho' little we boast, others' wants we supply--
If we see a poor beggarman roam,
We do as all should do, as they'd be done by,
We give him a welcome home.

All taxes and tythes I most cheerfully pay--
For the lawyer I care not a pin!
Passers by from the town tell the news of the day,
And if thirsty, find plenty within;
All neighbours I serve; to do good is my text;
And when life's closing day shall come,
I'll this world quit with pleasure, and hope in the next,
To meet a good welcome home!