Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/Song of the Ploughman

by Clarence Hawkes

SONG OF THE PLOUGHMAN

Bring forth the plough, the frost is out,
And spring is here without a doubt;
Upon the cattle put their yoke,
The field and fallow must be broke,
For he who reaps in harvesting
Must sow his seeds in early spring.

The plough is brought from loft or shed,
And forth the sturdy steers are led,
The yoke is placed upon their necks,
The plough is scoured all free from specks,
Then Sam, the plough boy, whip in hand,
Beside the cattle takes his stand.

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 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;
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,
Turning the furrows one by one
Until the long bright day is done.

Then towards the barn the cattle head
Where they are stalled and groomed and fed.
But still in sleep they hear the cracks
Of Sam's long whip across their backs,
And stir uneasy in their stalls
Until the new milch heifer bawls.

And e'en the farmer old and wise
Oft rises in his bed and cries—
"Whoa! Sam, look out, we've struck a rock!"
And then he hears the kitchen clock
Just striking three, so down he lies
And sleep soon holds his tired eyes.

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.