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BLUE GRASS BALLADS |
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At noontime, in the haying
When the dark and grassy shade Was cooling and inviting,
I have felt my color fade When father, or big brother,
Would call in gruffest tone: Come here, you scamp, and turn awhile
The old grindstone!"
I've made it whizz and wobble
Till the blade it ground would ring; And when it needed water,
I must bring that from the spring; But when I thought of resting,
I was "just a lazy drone," For it seemed I was the slaveling of
The old grindstone.
The years are very many
Since the trials of my youth, And, though I've wished them back again,
To tell the honest truth, I think I'd rather bear the ills
Along my pathway strown, Than be a boy and turn again
The old grindstone. |
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