"God speed the plough!" be this a prayerTo find its echo everywhere;But curses on the iron handThat grasps one rood of "common" land.Sure there's enough of earth beside,Held by the sons of Wealth and Pride;Their glebe is wide enough withoutOur "commons" being fenced about!
We guard the spot where steeples riseIn stately grandeur to the skies;We mark the place where altars shine,As hallow'd, sainted, and divine;And just as sacred should we holdThe turf, where peasants blithe and boldCan plant their footsteps day or night,In free, unquestioned, native right.
The common range—the common range—Oh! guard it from invading change;Though rough, 'tis rich—though poor, 'tis blest—And will be while the skylark's nestAnd early violets are there,Filling with sweetness earth and air.
It glads the eye—it warms the soul,To gaze upon the rugged knoll;Where tangled brushwood twines acrossThe straggling brake and sedgy moss.Oh who would give the blackthorn leavesFor harvest's full and rustling sheaves?Oh! who would have the grain spring upWhere now we find the daisy's cup;Where clumps of dark red heather gleam,With beauty in the summer beam—And yellow furze-bloom laughs to scornYour ripen'd hops and bursting corn?"God speed the plough!" but let us traceSomething of Nature's infant face;Let us behold some spot where manHas not yet set his "bar and ban;"Leave us the green wastes, fresh and wild,For poor man's beast and poor man's child!
'Tis well to turn our trusty steedsIn chosen stalls and clover meads;We like to see our "gallant grey"Snuff daintily his fragrant hay;But the poor sandman's "Blind old Ball"Lacks grooms and clover, oats and stall.
With tired limbs and bleeding backHe takes his steady, homeward track;The hovel gained, he neighs with glee,From burthen, whip, and bridle free:Turned forth, he flings his bony length,And rolls with all his waning strength;Up on his trembling legs again,He shakes himself from tail to mane,And, nibbling with a grateful zest,Finds on "the common" food and rest.
Hark to the shouts of peasant boys,With ill-carved bats, and uncheck'd noise!While "cricket," with its light-heel'd mirth,Leaves scars upon the grassy earthToo deeply lined by Summer's playFor Winter's storms to wear away.Spent by the game, they rove apart,With lounging form and careless heartOne by the rushing pond will floatOld "Dilworth" in a paper boat;Another wades, with legs all bare,To pluck the water-lily fair;Others will sit and chatter o'erThe village fund of cricket lore—Quote this rare "catch," and that bold "run,"Till, having gossip'd down the sun,They promise, with a loud "Good night!"That if to-morrow's sky be bright,They'll be again where they have beenFor years—upon the "common green."
The chicken tribe—the duckling brood,Go there to scratch their daily food;The woodman's colt—the widow's cows,Unwatch'd—untether'd there may browse;And, though the pasturage be scant,It saves from keen and starving want.
"God speed the plough!" let fields be till'd,Let ricks be heap'd and garners fill'd;'Tis good to count the Autumn gold,And try how much our barns can hold;But every English heart will tellIt loves an "English common" well;And curse the hard and griping hand.That wrests away such "hallow'd" land;That shuts the green waste, fresh and wild,From poor man's beast and poor man's child!
