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Country Boy's Boast Post by :petine Category :Poems Author :W. M. Mackeracher Date :November 2011 Read :3131

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Country Boy's Boast

And hath he not whereof he needs must sing?
And hath he not whereof he well may boast?--
He from whose kin so many a one did spring
To shape the mighty rocks that guard the coast
Of History 'gainst Time, lest all be lost;
And chiefly those who stamped the speaking page,
Who bore the standard of Achievement's host
In Fame's tenth legion, from the earliest age
Till stately Vergil wrote, till Chelsea's Vulcan sage.

Judea's royal, world-renowned bard
Was once a shepherd. How must Bethlehem's hills
Have leaped and grown more lovely as they heard;
Till raging monsters, music-charmed, he kills.
And saves his flock, or with his harping stills
More dire destroyers in his monarch's breast!
And whence did Job arise, that prince whose ills,--
Lost, flocks, lands, family, all that he possessed,--
Wrung the immoral song his virtue to attest?

Let him be proud in later days to roam
In Warwick vales by virtuous Avon's shore,
Through fields of Ayr, around the humble home
Of him, the Cincinnatus of song, or o'er
Ettrick and Tweeddale in their days of yore,
Or with the Seasons' bard on Cheviot green,
With young Chile Harold laugh o'er Loch na Garr,
The Solitary trace through Cumbrian scene,
Or weep on Sussex downs with him of gentle mien.

(The end)
W. M. MacKeracher's poem: Country Boy's Boast

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Before Harvest Before Harvest

Before Harvest
And now 'tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo, With ringing sound of full melodious horn, Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow,-- Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn, Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn,-- She comes elate with light, elastic pace; Her neck and zone full-clustered vines adorn; Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace; Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face. And now the fields, when suns serenely greet, A rich and mellow, wanton

Rain For The Farmer Rain For The Farmer

Rain For The Farmer
If gently falls the small, soft, lazy rain, To indoor industries he shrewdly steals; And in the barn from some neglected grain The choking chaff the clattering fanner reels; Or in the shed the sapling ash he peels For handles for the fork with humor blithe, Or haply lards the tumbril's heavy wheels, Or of the harness oils the leather lithe, Or turns the tuneless stone and grinds the gleaming scythe. But now the sky is black; and now the Storm