A Damn Good Trashing..

Thrashing the Corn.

Last year I saw a Combine, harvesting the corn,

It brought back pleasant memories, it made my heart quite warm.

It took me back to boyhood, to nineteen forty-eight,

When the thrashing engine came to town – Lord, what a wondrous sight.

The modern diesel Harvester makes light work of the task,

The acres that it reaps each day, it makes the job so fast.

But years ago, when things were slow, it took about ten days,

The cutting, stacking, drying, sacking, in oh so many ways.

The edges of the cornfield, were firstly cut by hand,

Men used a scythe, and cut it wide, the corn was left to stand,

A horse and reaper cut the field, followed by dads and sons,

One’s back would break, using a rake, until the glean was done.

The ears of corn still on the straw, were taken to the farm,

For safety against the rain, they stored it in a barn.

Then we would fret with baited breath, until the engine showed,

With smoke and steam, the whistle scream, it clanked along the road.

Next morning bright and early, the whistle it was heard,

At six o’clock it was a shock, much sooner than we cared,

Then we would race, to the thrashing place, the men already there,

Drink lemonade and bread fresh made, then strip ‘till almost bare.

The steam engine with smoking stack, the belts a massive roar,

The dust and chaff, the constant laugh, it made my young eyes sore.

Each had a special function, mine was to bag the seed,

For my Dads canaries, it came from a strange weed.

The men up on the thrasher, the job most dangerous,

For just one slip, into the pit, all hell would then break loose,

Young men with but a single leg, it was a common scene,

The old men they would whisper, ‘ Bad cess that damn machine’.

The farmer’s wife would bring the food, between half one and two,

The home-cooked ham, blackberry jam, it made a man of you,

The men they all drank cider, or Guinness - ‘Smooth as silk’,

While we young ones, ate jammy buns, washed down with creamy milk.

As dusk would fall, Dad gave a call, and off back home we strolled,

The steam engine, not steaming now, its ashes all gone cold

Stood waiting for next morning, and the new days toil.

The memory, this brings to me, it makes me truly smile.

The present day and modern way, there’s something gone awry,

One man and tractor does the job, where forty used to try

To do their best with love and zest, no matter what the weather,

Those times have past, I’ve seen the last, they’re gone and lost forever.

Mike……

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