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C J Dennis - Wheat
Work rating: Low

"Sowin` things an` growin` things, an` watchin` of `em grow;
That`s the game," my father said, an` father ought to know.
"Settin` things an` gettin` things to grow for folks to eat:
That`s the life," my father said, "that`s very hard to beat."
For my father was a farmer, as his father was before,
Just sowin` things an` growin` things in far-off days of yore,
In the far-off land of England, till my father found his feet
In the new land, in the true land, where he took to growin` wheat.

   Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the sound of it is sweet!
   I`ve been praisin` it an` raisin` it in rain an` wind an` heat
      Since the time I learned to toddle, till it`s beatin` in my noddle,
   Is the little song I`m singin` you of Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Plantin` things — an` grantin` things is goin` as they should,
An` the weather altogether is behavin` pretty good — 
Is a pleasure in a measure for a man that likes the game,
An` my father he would rather raise a crop than make a name.
For my father was a farmer, an` "All fame," he said, "ain`t reel;
An` the same it isn`t fillin` when you`re wantin` for a meal."
So I`m followin` his footsteps, an` a-keepin` of my feet,
While I cater for the nation with my Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

   Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When the poets all are beat
   By the reason that the season for the verse crop is a cheat,
      Then I comes up bright an` grinnin` with the knowledge that I`m winnin`,
   With the rhythm of my harvester an` Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Readin` things an` heedin` things that clever fellers give,
An` ponderin` an` wonderin` why we was meant to live — 
Muddlin` through an` fuddlin` through philosophy an` such
Is a game I never took to, an` it doesn`t matter much.
For my father was a farmer, as I might `a` said before,
An` the sum of his philosophy was, "Grow a little more.
For growin` things," my father said, "it makes life sort o` sweet
An` your conscience never swats you if your game is growin` wheat."

   Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the people have to eat!
   An` you`re servin`, an` deservin` of a velvet-cushion seat
      In the cocky-farmers` heaven when you come to throw a seven;
   An` your password at the portal will be, "Wheat, Wheat, Wheat."

Now, the preacher an` the teacher have a callin` that is high
While they`re spoutin` to the doubtin` of the happy by an` by;
But I`m sayin` that the prayin` it is better for their souls
When they`ve plenty wheat inside `em in the shape of penny rolls.
For my father was a farmer, an` he used to sit an` grieve
When he thought about the apple that old Adam got from Eve.
It was foolin` with an orchard where the serpent got `em beat,
An` they might `a` kept the homestead if they`d simply stuck to wheat.

   Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! If you`re seekin` to defeat
   Care an` worry in the hurry of the crowded city street,
      Leave the hustle all behind you; come an` let contentment find you
   In a cosy little cabin lyin` snug among the wheat.

In the city, more`s the pity, thousands live an` thousands die
Never carin`, never sparin` pains that fruits may multiply;
Breathin`, livin`, never givin`; greedy but to have an` take,
Dyin` with no day behind `em lived for fellow-mortals` sake.
Now my father was a farmer, an` he used to sit and laugh
At the "fools o` life," he called `em, livin` on the other half.
Dyin` lonely, missin` only that one joy that makes life sweet — 
Just the joy of useful labour, such as comes of growin` wheat.

   Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Let the foolish scheme an` cheat;
   But I`d rather, like my father, when viv span o` life`s complete,
      Feel I`d lived by helpid others; earned the right to call `em brothers
   Who had gained while I was gainin` from God`s earth His gift of wheat.

When the settin` sun is gettin` low above the western hills,
When the creepin` shadows deepen, and a peace the whole land fills,
Then I often sort o` soften with a feelin` like content,
An` I feel like thankin` Heaven for a day in labour spent.
For my father was a farmer, an` he used to sit an` smile,
Realizin` he was wealthy in what makes a life worth while.
Smilin`, he has told me often, "After all the toil an` heat,
Lad, he`s paid in more than silver who has grown one field of wheat."

   Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When it comes my turn to meet
   Death the Reaper, an` the Keeper of the Judgment Book I greet,
      Then I`ll face `em sort o` calmer with the solace of the farmer
   That he`s fed a million brothers with his Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.
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