FARMER MAW

Who’s he you saw, Stranger, among the stooks?— ’Tis Farmer Maw Scaring away the rooks. Once, stout and tall, He had no peer to plough; But this is all Poor Farmer’s fit for now. On Lammas Eve He hoed the Seven Acre, And taking leave Looked round like God the Maker: His hay well ricked— His fields secure and small— With a most strict Eye he surveyed them all; And finding less Than usual to offend His carefulness, Went home, and made an end. After she saw Hired bailiff reap and bind, Poor Widow Maw Sat down and called to mind How oft her Dear Exclaimed with scornful oaths At waste of gear Unthrift. His working clothes She fetched, and laid Them out upon a table; Though patched and frayed They yet were serviceable— Aye, in such worn Apparel, and bemired, As men might scorn, Scarecrow were well-attired. Thus, stuffed with straw, As large as life he stands— A shape of awe— And overlooks his lands, His flocks and herds: But sore, poor soul! beshit; For those bold birds Don’t honour him a whit.