THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.
There's not a murmur on the ear, no shade to meet the eye;
The ripple sleeps; the sun is up, all cloudless in the sky:
I do not like the gentle calm of such a torpid sea;
I will not greet the glassy sheet—'tis not the hour for me.
The ripple sleeps; the sun is up, all cloudless in the sky:
I do not like the gentle calm of such a torpid sea;
I will not greet the glassy sheet—'tis not the hour for me.
Now, now, the night-breeze freshens fast, the green waves gather strength;
The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length;
Our boat is jumping in the tide-quick, let her hawser slip:
Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship.
Away, away! what nectar spray she flings about her bow;
What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow,—
She knows she bears a soul that dares and loves the dark rough sea:
More sail I cry; let, let her fly—this is the hour for me.
The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length;
Our boat is jumping in the tide-quick, let her hawser slip:
Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship.
Away, away! what nectar spray she flings about her bow;
What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow,—
She knows she bears a soul that dares and loves the dark rough sea:
More sail I cry; let, let her fly—this is the hour for me.
THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.
The sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle;
The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while:
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals.
We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn;
We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land;
The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band.
The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while:
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals.
We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn;
We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land;
The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band.
The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told;
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold;
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there:
God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust;
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust.
Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band.
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold;
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there:
God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust;
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust.
Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band.
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