Page:Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection).djvu/180

The patient cattle plod along,
Their necks are bent, the yoke is strong;
The gleaming plough-share cleaves the earth,
The burning sunbeams dance in mirth,
And oft the farmer stops the plough
And wipes the sweat from off his brow.

At every turn the plough-boy's "Gee,"
Across the field makes melody,
Full well the cattle know his whip,
They oft have felt its stinging tip,
Yet spite of muzzles as they pass,
They stop to nip the tender grass.

Turn, turn, turn, empty are crib and bin,
Turn, turn, turn, ploughing the daisies in,
Turn, turn, turn, breaking the tufted sward,
Turn, turn, turn, reaping a rich reward.

The robin greets the farmers' toil
With notes of joy, and shares the spoil;
Across the fresh turned earth he hops,
Before a luscious worm he stops,
Then chirps, "this farmer's mighty good
To plough all day to find me food."

At noon the plough-boy thunders "whoa,"
A word that well the oxen know,
And one they always will obey,
And they are left to meal and hay;

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