are all getting our farms, while our own folk seem to think that a
precarious existence as a rich man's slave in the city, is a more
sensible thing than to take advantage of opportunities for which the
people of other worlds tear out their heart-strings, leave native
climate, language, habits, government, everything, and hurry hitherward.
For shame upon ourselves!
My lord rides through his palace gate;
My lady sweeps along in state;
The sage thinks long on many a thing
And the maiden muses on marrying;
The minstrel harpeth merrily,
The sailor plows the foaming sea,
The huntsman kills the good red deer,
And the soldier wars without a fear;
_Nevertheless, whate'er befall_,
_The farmer he must feed them all_.
[Illustration]