Page:Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection).djvu/181

Meanwhile the farm hands never fail
To empty clean the dinner pail.

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 dinner done they're off again—
These farmers are no idle men—
He earns his bread who tills the soil
By honest sweat and patient toil;
Still up and down with ceaseless tread,
This is the way his babes are fed.

And when the plough-point strikes a rock
And sends it back with sudden shock,
To dig the farmer in the ribs,
He takes fresh hold upon the nibs,
And pulls the plough back into place,
And moves along with cheery face.

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 weary oxen reek with sweat,
The farmer's cotton shirt is wet,
Still up and down he patient goes,
Turning those narrow clean-cut rows,

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