This is a tale, but it is truth,
Of maiden lady named Ruth,
She owned a small four acre farm,
Which possessed some rural charm.

This maiden she was past her youth,
But none e're fell in love with Ruth,
Though you must not infer from thence
That she possessed not grace nor sense.

She was handsome in her day,
But beauty quickly fades away,
Good vegetables and fine roots
She growed and choicest kind of fruits.

And a first-class good milch cow
She kept, and a fine breeding sow,
Her butter high price did command,
Cow fed on best of pasture land.

On it was pond where swam her geese,
From small flock of sheep she sheared fleece,
And thus she passed year after year,
Her cares they kept her in good cheer.

Each year she raised large chicken brood,
And for them she grew lots of food,
In winter time it was her rule
To knit and spin up her own wool.

And thus her uneventful life
Doth pass without jar or strife,
'Tis seldom she e're feels alarm,
But quietly tills her little farm.

To plow her little fields of course
She does require to drive her horse,
This little pony looks quite smart
Drawing old maid in little cart.