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Livestock & Forage
diary of a comedy sheep farm
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<blockquote data-quote="onthehoof" data-source="post: 8197987" data-attributes="member: 11104"><p>Shamelessly copied from elsewhere</p><p></p><p>DAD’S BALER.</p><p></p><p>A nissan hut, its winter lair,</p><p>Where it didn’t require one ounce of care,</p><p>It slumbered quietly beneath a sheet,</p><p>It didn’t drink, it didn’t eat.</p><p>Convinced was I at infant stage,</p><p>It was a dragon with fearsome rage,</p><p>My childhood thoughts recall I’m sure,</p><p>When I passed it once and heard it snore,</p><p>Then as the year warmed up the land,</p><p>It seemed to know what was at hand,</p><p>Perhaps it smelt how grass had grown,</p><p>And sometime soon would now be mown,</p><p>It seemed to smile as it inhaled,</p><p>And mouthed, ‘let’s get this ryegrass baled’,</p><p>That day would dawn,</p><p>With grease gun primed,</p><p>The knotters oiled and duly timed,</p><p>The PTO soon made it sing,</p><p>And hoppers filled with sisal string,</p><p>The clanking, whirring humming beast,</p><p>Went to the field, on hay to feast,</p><p>Powered by old red David Brown,</p><p>I watched as rams drove up and down,</p><p>As rows were baled,</p><p>And exhaust grew hot,</p><p>The baler just went and scoffed the lot,</p><p>Of time it never seemed to care,</p><p>Hay went in loose and came out square,</p><p>But then the ram would halt its stroke,</p><p>Lost haybob tyne and shear bolt broke,</p><p>Soon repaired, back to the grind,</p><p>That trail of sweet smelling dust behind,</p><p>Now rows of bales across the field,</p><p>As daylight to the dusk did yield,</p><p>The following day spent carting in,</p><p>Let the stacking of the bays begin,</p><p>And all the fodder, dried and green,</p><p>Every bit had through that baler been,</p><p>Times move on, now bales have wrap,</p><p>The old New Holland resigned to scrap,</p><p>With cabs and heaters, aircon too,</p><p>And computers informing what’s left to do,</p><p>Do we actually get more done?</p><p>Or back then was there just more sun,</p><p>As old small bales become more rare,</p><p>I miss their scent in the evening air,</p><p>And now when enjoying post harvest drink,</p><p>It makes me of my childhood think,</p><p>Of that old baler, it makes me grin,</p><p>I’m convinced a dragon lay deep within.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="onthehoof, post: 8197987, member: 11104"] Shamelessly copied from elsewhere DAD’S BALER. A nissan hut, its winter lair, Where it didn’t require one ounce of care, It slumbered quietly beneath a sheet, It didn’t drink, it didn’t eat. Convinced was I at infant stage, It was a dragon with fearsome rage, My childhood thoughts recall I’m sure, When I passed it once and heard it snore, Then as the year warmed up the land, It seemed to know what was at hand, Perhaps it smelt how grass had grown, And sometime soon would now be mown, It seemed to smile as it inhaled, And mouthed, ‘let’s get this ryegrass baled’, That day would dawn, With grease gun primed, The knotters oiled and duly timed, The PTO soon made it sing, And hoppers filled with sisal string, The clanking, whirring humming beast, Went to the field, on hay to feast, Powered by old red David Brown, I watched as rams drove up and down, As rows were baled, And exhaust grew hot, The baler just went and scoffed the lot, Of time it never seemed to care, Hay went in loose and came out square, But then the ram would halt its stroke, Lost haybob tyne and shear bolt broke, Soon repaired, back to the grind, That trail of sweet smelling dust behind, Now rows of bales across the field, As daylight to the dusk did yield, The following day spent carting in, Let the stacking of the bays begin, And all the fodder, dried and green, Every bit had through that baler been, Times move on, now bales have wrap, The old New Holland resigned to scrap, With cabs and heaters, aircon too, And computers informing what’s left to do, Do we actually get more done? Or back then was there just more sun, As old small bales become more rare, I miss their scent in the evening air, And now when enjoying post harvest drink, It makes me of my childhood think, Of that old baler, it makes me grin, I’m convinced a dragon lay deep within. [/QUOTE]
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diary of a comedy sheep farm
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