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THE FARMER'S BOY 105
The farmer's wench looked down on me, for she
was spruce and clean, But men of twelve don't care for girls like lads
of seventeen; And sorrow take the farmer's wench ! her
pride could never hold With mine when hoeing turnip fields with
fellows twice as old.
And so from May to Hallowe'en I wrought and
felt content, And sent my wages through the post to pay my
mother's rent; For I kept up the Glenties name, and blest,
when all was done, The pride that gave a man of twelve the
strength of twenty-one.