To The Farmers
W H Ogilvie
When we bid a farewell to the season
And turn out our hunters to grass'
'Twould be surely the blackest of treason
To go without filling a glass
To the men who have furthered our pastime
By lending their fields for the fun !
Here's 'Farmers ! -Once, twice and last time-
And 'Grandfather, father, and son !'
Looking back on the season that's ended,
We blush for our track in the seeds,
For the fences we left to be mended,
And the damage we did in the swedes;
And so, when we know there's no brooding
And the mending is cheerfully done,
Let us drink to the farmers; including
The grandfather, father and son !
From that rattling good day in November
Up to yesterday's wonderful burst
There is scarcely a run we remember
When a farmer was other than first.
It's because when the pace becomes clinking
They can ride with us second to none
That we drink -with our hearts in the drinking-
'The Farmers ! -Sire, grandsire and son !'