For Field and Forest.
THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.
ELIZA COOK.-Music at Z. T. Purday's.
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-cars
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.
In "Practice Songs," Nos. III., IV. Ward and Co. Price 6d.
THE teams are waiting in the field,
The ploughmen all a row,
As brisk and gay as birds in May,
They make a goodly show.
The farmer stands and sees all hands
Turn'd out and ready now;
Yet ere they start, with all our heart,
We'll say, "God speed the plough.'
We till the field, but He must yield
The sunshine and the rains.
In hope we plough, in hope we sow,
That He may bless our pains.
With willing mind and ready hand
Away to labour go!
Bear even weight, make furrow straight,
But say, "God speed the plough!"
THE MERRY PLOUGHMAN. As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring, I heard a merry ploughman sae sweetly to sing; And as he was singin', thae words he did say, "There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,
And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast;
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing,
And at night she'll return to her nest back again."
THE FARMER'S BOY.
THE sun had set behind yon hills,
Across the dreary moor,
When weary and lame a poor boy came,
Up to a farmer's door.
"Can you tell me," said he, "if any there be That will give me employ,
To plough and sow, reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy?
My father is dead-and mother is left
With her five children small,
And what is worse for my mother still,
I'm the biggest of them all:
Though little I be, I fear no work,
If you will me employ,
To plough and sow, reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy.
"And if you will not me employ,
One favour I will ask,
To shelter me till break of day,
From this night's bitter blast.
And at break of day I'll trudge away,
Elsewhere to seek employ,
To plough and sow, reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy."
The farmer's wife cries, "Try the lad,
Let him no further seek:
0 yes, dear father," the daughter cries, While tears ran down her cheek,
"For those that will work, it's hard to want, And wander for employ.
Don't turn him away, but let him stay,
And be your farmer's boy."
In course of time he grew a man,
The good old farmer died,
And left the lad the farm he had,
And his daughter to his bride;
Now the lad that was, the farmer is,
And oft he thinks with joy,
On the lucky, lucky day he came that way,
To be a farmer's boy.
THE BRITISH FARMER.
J. E. CARPENTER.-Music at Z. T. Purday's.
HERE'S a song for the British farmer bold,
With his golden grain and his cattle-fold;
A loftier theme perchance may be,
But here's power and wealth to his old roof-tree.
The sailor may honour the rolling seas,
The soldier may boast of his victories;
But they fight for the land, and stand or fall,
For the tillage and plough that give health to all.
Here's a song for the British farmer bold,
With his golden grain and his cattle-fold;
A loftier theme perchance may be,
But here's power and wealth to his old
roof-tree.
All titles and honour and power must yield
To him who rules in the harvest-field,
For kings of the soil are the good and the brave,
Who till the land where the corn-fields wave.
Whose flocks are fed on the herbage green,
Whose countless herds in the vales are seen,
Whose home is content, and whose blessing is health;
And whose labour gives to our isle its wealth.
Here's a song for the British farmer bold,
With his golden grain and his cattle-fold,
A loftier theme perchance may be,
But here's power and wealth to his oll
roof-tree.
THE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.
Music at Z. T. Purday's.
THE peasantry of England,
The merry hearts and free;
The sword may boast a braver band,
But give the scythe to me.
Give me the frame of industry,
Worth all your classic tomes.
God guard the English peasantry,
And bless their happy homes.
The sinews of old England,
The bulwark of the soil,
How much we owe each manly hand,
Thus fearless of its toil!
Oh! he who loves the harvest free,
Will sing where'er he roams.
God bless the English peasantry,
And give them happy homes.
God speed the plough of England,
We'll hail thee with three cheers,
And here's to those whose labour plann'd
The all which life endears.
May still the wealth of industry
Be seen where'er man roams;
A cheer for England's peasantry,
God send them happy homes.
THE KINGS OF THE SOIL.
E. H. BURRINGTON.
BLACK sin may nestle below a crest,
And crime below a crown;
As good hearts beat 'neath a fustian vest
As under a silken gown.
Shall tales be told of the chiefs who sold
Their sinews to crush and kill,
And never a word be sung or heard
Of the men who reap and till?
I bow in thanks to the sturdy throng
Who greet the young morn with toil,
And the burden I give my earnest song
Shall be this-the Kings of the Soil!
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