The Plough

The Plough

When Adam, with his blooming rib,
By the behest of Heaven,
From Paradise, his native home,
All sorrowing was driven -
The curse primeval, though so hard,
A blessing was, I trow,
That she should nurse her little babes,
While he should guide the PLOUGH!

So our great ancestor became
A farmer of the soil;
And millions of his children too,
Are sharers in the toil.
We clear the beautify the fields:
We drain the miry slough;
We wield the sickle and the flair,
And guide the sturdy Plough!

Of all the stations here on earth,
The farmer ranks the first,
Though some may reckon him debased,
For toiling in the dust,
'Tis natur's calling he pursues,
As, with a sweaty brow,
He turns the sod all upside down,
And guides the sturdy Plough!

When Spring in all its merriment
O'er spreads the fields with green,
And nought save notes of joy is heard,
And nought but smiles are seen -
The farmer turns his tillage lands,
And who's so happy now,
As he, while, whistling to his team,
He guides the shining Plough!

Domestic joy full well he knows,
And, it may hap, a care;
For none must think to be exempt
From common lot and share.
His wife, she deems it her concern
To milk the bonny cow,
And cheer her ruddy husband, as
He guides the sturdy Plough.

For love of wealth, some get ensnar'd
In speculation's coils,
And others, when disasters come,
Are scrambling for the spoils;
Still does the prudent farmer pay
To industry his vow,
Nor heeds the struggle nor the strife,
But steady guides the Plough.

Good rule and order he delights:
He lives in peace with all,
And, to defend his country's rights,
He's ready for the call.
Now, to be ever thus content,
Say, wights, would ye knew how?
'Tis but to mind your own affairs,
And steady guide the Plough!

Unattributed

1:47, p. 4

1837.11.25