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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

Evening at the Farm

By John Townsend Trowbridge (1827–1916)

OVER the hill the farm-boy goes.

His shadow lengthens along the land,

A giant staff in a giant hand;

In the poplar tree, above the spring,

The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;—

Into the stone-heap darts the mink;

The swallows skim the river’s brink;

And home to the woodland fly the crows,

When over the hill the farm-boy goes,

Cheerily calling,

“Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!”

Farther, farther, over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

“Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’!”

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day:

Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough,

The straw’s in the stack, the hay in the mow,

The cooling dews are falling;—

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,

The pigs come grunting to his feet,

And the whinnying mare her master knows,

When into the yard the farmer goes,

His cattle calling,—

“Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!”

While still the cow-boy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray,—

“Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’!”

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.

The cattle come crowding through the gate,

Lowing, pushing, little and great;

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,

The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;—

The new milch-heifer is quick and shy,

But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,

And the white stream into the blight pail flows,

When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

“So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!”

The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,

And sits and milks in the twilight cool,

Saying “So! so, boss! so! so!”

To supper at last the farmer goes.

The apples are pared, the paper read,

The stories are told, then all to bed.

Without, the crickets’ ceaseless song

Makes shrill the silence all night long;

The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife’s hand has turned the lock;

Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;

The household sinks to deep repose,

But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling,—

“Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!”

And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,

Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,

Murmuring “So, boss! so!”