My grandmother lives on a farm
Just twenty miles from town;
She’s sixty-five years old, she says;
Her name is Grandma Brown.
Her farm is very large and fine;
There’s meadow, wood and field.
And orchards which all kinds of fruits
Most plentifully yield.
Butter she churns, and makes nice cheese;
They are so busy there,
If mother should stay with me too,
I’d like to do my share.
I go out with the haymakers,
And tumble on the hay;
They put me up upon the load,
And home we drive away.
I go into the pleasant fields
And gather berries bright;
They’ve many, many thousands there,
All fresh and sweet and ripe.
A pretty brook runs through the farm,
Singing so soft and sweet:
I sit upon the grassy bank,
And bathe my little feet.
A farmer I would like to be,
They live so pleasantly;
They must be happy while they work,
Singing so cheerfully.
I think I’ll save all that I get,
And earn all that I can
And buy me such a pleasant farm
When I grow up a man.
