He don’t take days to travel up by daily coach and mail, And stop at roadside posting-houses, drinking rum and ale. Or waste his time to dine, and hear the landlord’s oft-told tale, But speeds at forty miles an hour to town express by rail. This fine Young Agriculturist, &c. In former days his dress was baggy sandy-coloured suits, A great top-coat, with pockets deep, knee-breeches and top-boots, And all his thoughts were how to grow the finest crops and roots, And all his talk of ripening corn and rearing Christmas brutes. Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c. But now the modern farmer is a transformation quite―― His coat made small, and cutaway――his trousers fitting tight. His Balmoralish patent leather button boots are light, A Champagne Charley glossy hat, curl’d brim, and small in height, On this fine Young Agriculturist, &c. The past young English farmer was so vulgar and ill-bred―― A gross, fat, clumsy lump of human nature over-fed; His goggle-eyes were lustreless――his bacon chops all red, His hair hung coarse and shaggy all about his pumpkin-head. Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c. But the modern English farmer, now, ’tis pretty well agreed, Is a very different person――of a very different breed; He comes up to the Cattle Show a gentleman indeed, And doesn’t lounge about the town, and drink, and overfeed. Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c. He’s quite a genteel fellow, nothing “fast,” and nothing “flash”; Can very soon distinguish good amusements from the trash; His nature full of spirits, and his pocket full of cash, And he cultivates your friendship――and a very large moustache. Does this fine Young Agriculturist, &c. He talks to you of chemical manures――salts and phosphates, Discusses freely politics of home or foreign states; In science, too, is well read up to hold out long debates; Can play the “fancy” science, too, for punishing rogue’s pates. This fine Young Agriculturist, &c. He’s not a _Tony Lumpkin_ now, to muddle time away In public-house, or skittle-ground, and smoke the vulgar clay. But, having more refinement, can the game of billiards play, Or join the ladies on the lawn at love-making croquet. Can this nice Young Agriculturist, &c. Look round, too, at his Christmas stock――the same improvement own; No longer for a tallow show the Christmas cattle grown: No more beneath oppressive fat shall porkers lie and moan, But well-developed form and flesh, and very little bone. By this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.