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The day begins with morn's first light,
For hungry men she is the cook,
And not until 'tis dark at night
Can she from ceaseless labors look.

The burning heat, the grinding toil,
Are part and parcel of each day;
And oft', when needed, she tills the soil
Or helps to stack the new-mown hay.

Wherever the labor she will be
Performing tasks a thousand-fold;
It seems that always she can see
What's to be done and takes a-hold

The wanting ones from any plight
Fruits of her toil receive a share;
And nothing gives her more delight
Than for the sick to want her care

She labors long and hard through life,
Good deeds she's ever sowing;
Oh surely 'tis the farmer's wife
Who keeps this old world going.

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