You're sowing seeds in summer;
Some day they'll be repast.
The sun shines on the seedlings;
And they seek the sky, and fast.
Fairly soon you will be scything
Grain wealth growing on your land.
Soil you'd been sagely preppin';
You beam, "Ain't life grand?!"

You'll be bringing in the sheaves,
Blowing away the swine:
You'll be gatting runts and won't grieve
'cause on your grain they would dine.
You'll be bringing in the sheaves,
Blowing away the kine:
You'll be banging your gun; won't grieve
'cause on your maize they would dine.

You've been out there in your fields,
E'en when bad weather's seen.
In sunshine and in shadows,
You savage sowing machine.
And although you are unmarried,
You're husbandry's well-planned.
Your labor is unharried;
You have husky hands.

You'll be bringing in the sheaves,
Sowing of maize was fine.
You'll be shearing the stalks of leaves
And feed chaff to calf and swine.
That is, the ones that you'd leave
After your banging time.
But then all of your neighbors grieve,
Screaming, "That livestock weren't thine!"

You pay them all some money
For their weeping and their cries.
Then they say all is "jolly good";
They're English, you surmise.
Next, you pull a Tom Sawyer on them,
Sing hosannas of land,
How working it is god's reward;
They're lending a hand.

They are bringing in the sheaves,
Mowing 'way overtime,
And you keep them from getting peeved
By feeding them gin, beer, and wine.
While they're bring in your sheaves,
You're making a beeline
For the barn, and 'neath its eaves. . .
Bang remaining kine and swine.