Song of the Plough

Up in the morning at break of day,

Rubbing the horses and pitching down hay;

Swinging the doors of the cattle stalls,

Answering the low and plaintive calls.

A friendly welt on old “Black and Spot”,

Turning them loose in the pasture lot;

Heading them outward to laze and graze –

These are the hurrying ploughman’s days.

     Then it’s rip, rip, rip,

       Through the tangled sod and soil;

     And it’s drip, drip, drip,

       From the steaming span a-toil.

     But the plough goes forward steady

       Since the glow of early morn;

     And the cheery ploughman’s ready

       For the welcome dinner horn.

Stuck in the furrow its shining blade,

The plough is left when the halt is made,

The horses tug at the well-gripped rein,

Anxious for stall and fodder again.

A welcome home, and dinner o’er,

A story told at the old back door;

Another tug at the clanking chains –

The turf grows small and the furrow gains.

     Then it’s rip, rip, rip,

       Through the tangled sod and soil;

     And it’s drip, drip, drip,

       From the hardy son of toil.

     But the plough goes forward steady,

       Till the sun sinks in the west,

     And the weary ploughman’s ready

       For the fireside and his rest.

March 15 or 16, ‘09