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Edgar Guest - Out At Pelletier`s
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OUT at Pelletier`s where the blooded pigeons fly, 
An` the tony Shetland ponies romp and play, 
Where the peacock on the fence rail hoots at motors chugging by 
An` the wolf hounds at the moon (in Russian) bay;
Where the poultry sort o` swaggers in its best bluer-ribbon style,
An` the hogs wear silver buttons in their ears, 
It is comfortin` an` soothin` jes` to sit an` rest awhile, 
For it brushes back at least a dozen years.

Out at Pelletier`s—where old Monte Mark is king,
An` he knows it an` he shows it to `em all, 
Whether rompin` in the pasture, or in trappings for the ring,
Or whinnyin` to greet you in his stall; 
An` where Chief, the son of Monte, in a splendid coat of bay
Shows the heritage of vigor in his veins; 
It is soothin` an` consolin` to be restin` for a day, 
An` forget the city`s dismal grind for gains.

It`s a lesson in good breedin`—at the farm o` Pelletier`s,
It`s a lesson in refinement an` in care; 
An` it sets a thinkin` feller sort o` thinkin` o` the years
That are waitin` in the future over there. 
An` while he`s sittin` restin` underneath the walnut tree,
He is thinkin` thoughts perhaps he never speaks; 
What`s he goin` to leave behind him when his spirit is set free? 
Is it money or perfection that he seeks? 

Is he strivin` here`for dollars or a better human race, 
Just as Pelletier is doin` with his stock? 
Would he rather leave a brighter, clearer, smilin` boyish face
Than his name upon a massive building rock? 
Is he buildin` here for soundness an` for cleanliness of heart?
Is he breedin` here for happiness or tears? 
Oh, it`s good for any feller just to take himself apart 
An` think the thoughts that come at Pelletier`s.
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