Agricultural, Implements and Machinery
Poor laborers, they did sad bewail,
When the machine displaced the flail ;
Theres little work, now, with the hoes,
Since cultivators weed the rows.
Labor it became more fickle
When the scythe took place of sickle ;
Labor still it did sink lower
By introduction of mower ;
And the work was done much cheaper
When they added on the reaper.
Another machine to it they join,
Mower, reaper, binder, they combine.
Machines now load and stow away
Both the barley and the hay,
And the farmers do get richer
With the loader and the pitcher.
Theres little work now for the hoes,
Since cultivators weed the rows ;
They sow and rake by the machine-
Hand labor's 'mong the things have been.
Armed with scythes, the old war chariot
Cut down men in the fierce war riot ;
Round farmer's chariot falls the slain,
But 'tis the sheaves of golden grain.
This harvest, now, of eighty-four,
Will great wealth on farmers pour,
For there is abundant yield
Of fruitful crops in every field.
poem by James McIntyre
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Related quotes
Woman Machine
She'll do your work in half the time
Never sick and can't go blind
Oh, woman machine
Brains of tape that fill her head
She knows more now than all the dead
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Heart of steel and skin that's cold
Can't wear her out, she can't grow old
Oh, woman machine
She goes to bed when her work is through
She'll do it all, just change the tubes
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine-ine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman
She can't talk back
With no playback
But she'll listen
To all your woe
Trade your old one
For a new one
They just don't make 'em like they used to
No!
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
Oh, woman machine
''...exceeds one million when the stop button is pressed,
the... has results PCR621, into the drayer reading pool
to hold the relay on for one quarter second after the
Q603 deenergizes. Therefore, the time delay occurs only
when the stop button is pressed, during the record nine.
The sole function of the capacitor c620 is to maintain
charge in
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Labor is work that leaves no trace behind it when it is finished, or if it does, as in the case of the tilled field, this product of human activity requires still more labor, incessant, tireless labor, to maintain its identity as a ""work"" of man.
quote by Mary McCarthy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Who Rejects Christ
There's farmers and there's farmers,
There's many a field and field,
But none of the farmers round about
Can haul such harvest-wagons out
As I from an acre's yield.
There's plenty and plenty of farmers
That leave the ground by the fence,
Thinking it's nice if a patch of roses
Should scratch out the hay and tickle their noses
With nice little wild-rose scents.
I'm not like other farmers,
I make my farming pay;
I never go in for sentiment,
And seeing that roses yield no rent
I cut the stuff away.
A very good thing for farmers
If they would learn my way;
For crops are all that a good field grows,
And nothing is worse than a sniff of rose
In the good strong smell of hay.
poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Whispers From Bones
THE WAR MACHINE
IS QUITE OBSCENE
THE WAR MACHINE
IS QUITE UNCLEAN
BUT
THE WAR MACHINE
WILL NOT STOP
BECAUSE
THE WAR MACHINE
MUST BE FED
THE WAR MACHINE
MUST HAVE BLOOD
THE WAR MACHINE
MUST HAVE DEATH
THE WAR MACHINE
MUST HAVE LIFE
THE WAR MACHINE
MUST HAVE STRIFE
THE WAR MACHINE
MUST BE FED
THE WAR MACHINE
LOVES THE DEAD
THE WAR MACHINE
WILL NOT STOP
BECAUSE
THE WAR MACHINE
IS ANGRY MAN.
poem by M.L. Squier
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With Fingers Weary
With fingers weary
With eyelids heavy
I no longer lone for manual labor
Tho it be necessarily the thing to do
To work from nine to five
And work I say work for who?
This life long labor is all for you
My work is to say what I say to you
By the pen may it be made true.
poem by David E. Patton
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It is work, work that one delights in, that is the surest guarantor of happiness. But even here it is a work that has to be earned by labor in one's earlier years. One should labor so hard in youth that everything one does subsequently is easy by comparison.
quote by Ashley Montagu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just A Machine
It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
Four wheels that travel from A to B.
Why worship this idol that you see,
That’s pretty silly, don’t you agree.
It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
Costing a fortune, must keep its shine.
Had to have it, this knockout design.
Thought it simply something so divine.
It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
Depreciates in so quick a time.
Won’t last long, rusty, bang goes its prime.
It certainly won’t be worth a dime.
It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
A car that travels from A to B.
Not an icon, no god this taxi,
Merely moulded plastic, with a key.
It’s just a machine,
Just a machine.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Abundant Harvest
The following was composed and read at a gathering in the new
Parsonage, Salford, in the fall, 1883.
The farmers are in cheerful mood,
For harvest all it hath been good;
And all the grain was sown this spring
An abundant yield will bring.
And you can scarcely stow away.
The yield of barley, oats and hay ;
Such pasture it is seldom seen,
E'en now it is so fresh and green.
This beauteous color nature decks
While it insures you large milk checques [sic],
And certes you've much cause to praise
For hogs and cattle that you raise.
poem by James McIntyre
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This time in june
It's june
The farmer's spell
With cutlasses and hoes
We rushed off our feet;
Off to the feild we go
It's june
The farmer's delight
With so much rigor
We worked our fingers sore
And in the night
We barely had a sleep
It's june
The farmer's joy
The heavens had opened up
Their hearts upon the earth
For the farmers household
It's time to toil
So, in november;
When harvest finally comes
The farmer walked with pride
It's the pinnacle of his yeild
And he is proud to trade
So, in november;
When harvest finally comes
With basket and sacks
We headed for the feild
It's time to fill our barns;
Even our bellies,
Also; the farmers wallet
A heavy weight to lift
And for the farmers household
It's time for spoils
This time in june;
It was a different story
And my father says;
No pain, no gain!
poem by Bolami lawal
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Happy Labour's Day!
Behind the men on the street,
responsible for cleaning and hygiene,
Behind the men on the site,
who work under sun and rain,
Behind the men in the factories,
who work with machines and maladies,
Behind the men in the fields,
who sweat and dry that with dirty rugs,
Behind the men in the conditioned offices,
who have to slouch and repeat the diction,
Behind every professional and politician,
who have to do the particular work and prove,
there are few mouth at home,
earnestly waiting for them.
To keep the food on the table,
to provide cloth and shelter,
to educate and medicate,
to love, care and cherish,
Most labor goes for love,
Love that we have,
Upon our loved ones,
our friends, society,
and our dear nation,
That energizes us,
To work tirelessly.
Behind the millions of housewives,
who work all day and night for the whole year,
there stand a family,
to prove that the toil of these women,
not wasted and the labor of these women,
connect the hearts through the stomach and mind.
Everyone of us is a laborer,
who have to serve the Gods,
who, are the laborers themselves,
for they create, protect and save us,
throughout the year without any rest.
Happy Laborer's day!
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Lay of the Laborer
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's rugged school.
To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.
To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze!
To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forlorn,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The blight to blast the corn,
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path,
To strike the miser's rick, and show
The skies blood-red with wrath.
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.
Ay, only give me work,
And then you need not fear
That I shall snare his Worship's hare,
Or kill his Grace's deer;
Break into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich;
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.
Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labor calls,
No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.
My only claim is this,
With labor stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer—
But all from the hand that holds the land,
And none from the overseer!
No parish money, or loaf,
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task:
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.
Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labor can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man!
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge!
Who every weekly score
Docks labor's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hoped to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the new Bastille,
The Spital, or the Gaol!
poem by Thomas Hood
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I would prefer to have invented a machine that people could use and that would help farmers with their work — for example a lawnmower.
quote by Mikhail Kalashnikov
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Machine
Wasteful season take my hand
Take the place of the snakes who ran
Savage things wash over me
A crime that leaves a heated greed
Oh Machine, Machine
I washed it for you
Machine, Machine
I waste it for you
And I walk
And I walk
A space left for two
And I wait
And I wait
To wake next to you
And I walk
And I walk
A space left for two
And I wait
And I wait
To wake next to you
Oh Machine, Machine
I waste it for you
Machine, Machine
I waste it for you
HAH!
Oh Machine, Machine
I washed it for you
song performed by by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Machine
Wasteful season take my hand
Take the place of the snakes who ran
Savage things wash over me
A crime that leaves a heated greed
Oh Machine, Machine
I washed it for you
Machine, Machine
I waste it for you
And I walk
And I walk
A space left for two
And I wait
And I wait
To wake next to you
And I walk
And I walk
A space left for two
And I wait
And I wait
To wake next to you
Oh Machine, Machine
I waste it for you
Machine, Machine
I waste it for you
HAH!
Oh Machine, Machine
I washed it for you
song performed by by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Motionless
Work
Work
That's what I need to do
Work
Work
I feel so lazy
Working machine
Working machine
That's what I need to be
I need to make my grades go sky high
Make the entire house gleam
Make the best meal ever
Work
Work
Why don't I start
I should just work
All the time
Push everything else away
Instead I sit here
Staring at the T.V.
Staring at a book
Staring at my family
Staring at a magazine
Nanny's making supper
I really should go help
I should take over
And while I'm at it
I should study for my test
And dust, too
But instead I sit
And sit
And sit
And sit
And sit
Just staring,
Watching my life pass me by
poem by Candace Johnson
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Work To-Day
Youth's the time; Youth's the season!
Learn and labor while you may,
Hear the voice of age and reason,-
Work to-day.
Labor hard in morning's prime,
Hasten on without delay,
Make the most of early time-
Work to-day.
Up betimes, nor let the sun
Find you sleeping or at play,
Sleep enough when life is done-
Work to-day.
Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower,
Seize the moments while you may,
Nor idly pass one sunny hour-
Work to-day.
poem by James McCauley
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One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men. No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.
quote by Elbert Hubbard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ye Agents
These agent men! these agent men!
We hear the dreaded step again,
We see a stranger at the door;
And brace ourselves for war once more.
He bows and smiles. 'Walk in,' we say,
He smiles again. 'I come to-day,
Dear Madam, with a great invention;
And Sir, pray give me
your
attention;
Now here, you see, is something new,
And just the thing, my friends, for you.'
In vain we interrupt and say:
'We shall not buy of you to-day.'
'But, Madam, Sir, you have not seen
The beauties of this new machine;
When thus arranged, your old affair,
'Tis plain to see, is just nowhere.'
'No doubt,' I say; ''Tis very fine,
And quite superior to mine.'
This gives him courage. On he goes,
And every sentence glibly flows,
Until his lesson is repeated
To 'warranted if fitly treated.'
'Yes, new and fine, and grand,' we say,
'But still we shall not buy to-day.'
'But, Madam, Sir, pray list to reason,
'Twill buy itself in half a season;
You see the thing is bound to go.'
'Oh certainly, we see, we know,
But still we do not wish to buy.'
He turns and leaves us with a sigh,
And while we hasten to our labor
He goes and persecutes our neighbor.
But lo! another follows on,
Before the last is fairly gone.
One day a reaper, next a mower,
And then a fanning mill, and sower;
Machines of all kinds 'neath the sun,
Each better than the other one;
A rocker for each dining chair,
A brace to hold the broom in air,
A book, just out, and you must buy
Or give a proper reason why.
So if we sometimes turn away
Abruptly, Sirs, you must remember,
That we have heard your tale each day
From early Spring to late December.
Why! if we listened to you all,
And gave you the required attention,
I think ere long each one would call,
The 'county house,' the
best
invention.
1869
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Johnsons Aeroplane
Four long lines one darker than the rest
Each one has a purpose making borders on the land
Farmers pride you know he works real hard
]from a small aeroplane you can see the fields
Heart shaped hedges
Japanese gardens
A place to work and grow
A place to work and grow
Four long years one leaner than the rest
The animals are fed and the pastures dry
Farmers pride if the weather doesnt lie
]from a small aeroplane you can see the sea
Lots of blue
Very deep blue
A place to work and grow
A place to work and grow
Johnson sees the fields from all the sides
Steel machines and black tar roads
Countryside where the spirit never dies
In his face all the history shows
Farmers pride as the rains came down
song performed by by INXS
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forty Hour Week
forty hour week (for a livin')
There are people in this country who work hard every day.
Not for fame or fortune do they strive.
But the fruits of their labor are worth more than their pay.
And it's time a few of them were recognized.
Hello detroit auto workers, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
Hello pittsburgh steel mill workers, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
This is for the one who swings the hammer, driving home the nail.
Or the one behind the counter, ringing up the sale.
Or the one who fights the fires, the one who brings the mail.
For everyone who works behind the scenes.
You can see them every morning in the factories and the fields.
In the city streets and the quiet country towns.
Working together like spokes inside a wheel.
They keep this country turning around.
Hello kansas wheat field farmer, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
Hello west virginia coal miner, let me thank you for your time.
You work a forty hour week for a livin', just to send it on down the line.
This one is for the one who drives the big rig, up and down the road.
Or the one out in the warehouse, bringing in the load.
Or the waitress, the mechanic, the policeman on patrol.
For everyone who works behind the scenes.
With a spirit you can't replace with no machine.
Hello, america,
Let me thank you for your time.
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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