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.