Sniffing the Gasoline

By Staff

1223 Westover Road Danville, Virginia 24541

(Taken from the Farm Implement News of June 13, 1912) By F. L.
Morrison

I long for the song of the rippling rill, For the shimmer of sun
on leaf; For the breeze-kissed rim of the distant hill My soul
cries out in its grief. But instead I endure the city’s tug,
With its parks of made-up green, For here I can hear the
engine’s chug While sniffing the gasoline.

I long to arise at the break of day And go forth with the lowing
kine; I pine for the fragrance of new mown hay, For the pleasures
that once were mine. Instead in the city I toil and lug, And dream
of a country scene, For here I can hear the engine’s chug While
sniffing the gasoline.

Again I’d be in the dear old home, Midst the fields of
waving corn, Nor ever again would I care to roam From the place
where I was born; But the city holds me tight in its hug, With a
hold that only can mean That her I can hear the engine’s chug
While sniffing the gasoline.

You tell me they’ve got an engine there now, And a big red
automobile? Then to city life I’ll make my bow And get back to
where things are real. So here’s to the farm, let’s all
drink a mug; There’s no better place, I ween, If there I can
hear the engine’s chug While sniffing the gasoline.

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