I love to see my chickens grow,
     My turkies, ducks, and geese;
   I love to tend my flowering plants,
     And make the new milk cheese.

   I love to wash, I love to sew,
     All needful work I like to do;
   I like to keep my kitchen neat,
     And humble parlor, too.

   And when the grateful task is done,
     And pleasure claims a share,
   With some dear friend I’ll walk abroad
     And take the balmy air.

   Not through the dusty, crowded streets,
     Amid the bustling throng,
   But in some pleasant cool retreat,
     We’ll hear the woodland song.

   Or trace the winding silver stream,
     And linger on its banks,
   While all the birds in concert sweet,
     Present their evening thanks.

   We’ll seek the ancient forest shade,
     And see its branches wave,
   Which have, perchance, a requiem sang
     Above the red man’s grave.

   We’ll breathe the pure untainted air,
     Fresh from the verdant hills;
   And pluck wild blossoms from their beds
     Beside the laughing rills.

   I love the country in the spring,
     With all its waving trees;
   When songs of joy from every grove
     Are wafted on the breeze.

   The smiling pastures robed in green,
     How beautiful, and gay;
   With bleating flocks, and lowing herds,
     And little lambs at play.

   I love midst rural scenes to dwell,
     In summer’s pleasant hours;
   And pluck her sweet delicious fruits,
     And smell her fragrant flowers.

   I love to see the growing corn,
     And fields of waving grain;
   I love the sunshine, and the shade. 
     And gentle showers of rain.

   I love to see the glitt’ring dew,
     Like pendant diamonds, hung
   On ev’ry plant, and flower, and tree,
     Their glossy leaves among.

   I love the joyful harvest months;
     When smiling on the plain,
   We see rich golden ears of corn,
     And bending sheaves of grain.

   I love to see the cellar filled
     With sauce of various kinds,
   Potatoes, beets and onions too,
     And squashes from the vines.

   I love to see the well filled barn,
     And smell the fragrant hay;
   I’ll milk while brother feeds the lambs,
     And see them skip and play.

   I love to rise before the sun,
     And see his rosy beams
   Shine glim’ring through the waving trees,
     In quiv’ring fitful gleams.

   I love, when nothing intervenes. 
     The setting sun to spy,
   Tinging the clouds with every hue,
     Which charms the gazing eye.

   I love the country every where,
     Here let me spend my life;
   No higher shall my thoughts aspire—­
     I’d be a farmer’s wife.[6]