I have cattle that feed in the valley, And herds that graze on the hill, And I pride in the fruits of my labor, For I’m lord of the land that I till, I have plow’d the rough hill and the meadow Till feeble with age and with toil, And I know before long that another Shall reap the new fruits of the soil.
For the son that hath toil’d for me ever, And faithfully stood by my side, Hath a hand that shall gather the harvest, When his feeble old father hath died. And the daughter so kind to her mother, Shall share with him all I possess, For I feel that they love me as father, And welcome my tender caress.
There’s my faithful, my trusting companion, My kind-hearted dear loving wife; I have toil’d for her comfort with pleasure, For such was the pride of my life. And still in my manhood I love her, For her kind and affectionate care, And all that the earth can afford me, With her I most willingly share.
They don’t wish me at home, though they miss me, ’Twould be a great assurance, I fear, To think for a moment some soft one Would say, “I wish Toby were here.” Although the poor tom-cat at the fireside May think of poor me as I roam, Oh yes, I’d be green beyond measure To think they do wish me at home.
Dark nights were my joy for this reason: Some orchard I’d visit alone; Next morning some farmer would mention My name with some fruit that was gone. But now fruits are safe from all danger, None’s miss’d since poor Toby’s away; And the neighbors all wish I may never Return from the place where I stay.
I forgot not my place at the table, When “grub-time” was fast drawing nigh; Then the “vittles” that lay all around me Disappear’d in the wink of an eye. Now, when my poor supper is over, I spread myself out for a snore, Oh! I dream of the fruits in the garden, And think myself happy once more.
Oh! I wish I was home, though they quiz me And jaw me from morning till night; I’d finger the peach-trees around me-- The farmers should stare with affright. Although they would give me no welcome, I’d not be less bold than before; Their fruit they shall miss by the bushel. Because I am with them once more.
I’m lonesome since I cross’d the saes, My mind is never aisy; No mortal sowl can give relaif-- In troth, I’m getting crazy. The burning tears roll down me chakes, In faith, they nearly blind me; I weep and sigh, both night and day, For the Girl I left behind me.