Poet Of The Hills, Bolivar, Missouri
From over the fields at early morn,
The shocks of grain and waving corn
A whistle sounds to pierce the air
And we know the threshing crew is there.
We hurry out to that handsome machine
To catch a whiff of escaping steam
Then we're all keyed up for a happy day
To enjoy our threshing the old fashioned way.
The engine puffs and slows a bit
Whenever the heaviest bundles hit
The whirling cylinder of that grand machine
Then spins along again serene.
The farmers' wives join in the fun
To fry many chickens brown and done
For all the men and threshing crew
Are eager to help with that dinner too.
Memory turns to those joys we had
When we were boys on the farm with dad.
No other thrills will ever seem
Like those purring engines full of steam.