The Ploughman.

    Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
    Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
    My father, tiller of the soil,
    Bequeathed them to me with my name.

    Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
    Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
    And these two brown and sinewy hands,
    Methinks, were never white or soft.

    I earn my bread and know its worth,
    Through days that chill and days that warm,
    I wrest it with my strong right arm
    From out the bosom of the earth.

    The moneyed man may boast his wealth,
    The high-born boast his pedigree,
    But greater far, it seems to me,
    My heritage of brawn and health.

    My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,
    My independence free and bold -
    Mine is the richest dower, I hold,
    And ploughman is a noble name.

    Nor think me all uncouth and rough,
    For, as I turn the furrows o'er,
    Far clearer than the threshing-floor
    I see the tender growing stuff.

    A lab'rer, I, the long day through;
    The lonely stretch of field and wood
    Seem pleasant things to me, and good;
    The river sings, the heaven's blue

    Bends down so near the sun-crowned hill -
    Thank God, I have the eyes to see
    The beauty and the majesty
    Of Nature, and the heart to thrill

    At crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush,
    The fields of gold that stretch afar,
    The glimmer of the first pale star
    That heralds in the evening's hush.

    They lie who say that labor makes
    A brute thing, an insensate clod,
    Of man, the masterpiece of God;
    They lie who say that labor takes

    All from us save the lust of pelf,
    Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind,
    For no man need be deaf or blind
    Unless he wills it so himself.

    This life I live's a goodly thing -
    My soul keeps tune to one glad song
    The while I turn the furrows long -
    A ploughman happy as a king.

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

To Lillian Massey Treble

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Native Born.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Forgive And Forget.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Archibald Lampman.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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The Ploughman

Tearing up the stubborn soil,
        Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,
        Hands, and feet, and garments soiling -
Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?
            Yet there's lustre in his eye,
            Borrowed from yon glowing sky,
            And there's meaning in his glances
            That bespeak no dreamer's fancies;
            For his mind has precious lore
            Gleaned from Nature's sacred store.

Toiling up yon weary hill,
        He has worked since early morning,
        Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,
And he's at his labor still,
            Though the slanting, western beam
            Quivering on the glassy stream,
            And yon old elm's lengthened shadow
            Flung athwart the verdant mea...

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The Ploughman

Anniversary Of The Berkshire Agricultural Society, October 4, 1849

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam!
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!

First in the field before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod;
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;
Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain;
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing cl...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Ploughman And His Sons.

^[1]

The farmer's patient care and toil
Are oftener wanting than the soil.

A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end,
Call'd in his sons apart from every friend,
And said, 'When of your sire bereft,
The heritage our fathers left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is conceal'd:
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod.'
The father died. The sons - and not in vain -
Turn'd o'er the soil, and o'er again;
That year their acres bore
More grain than e'er before.
Though hidden money found they none,
Yet had their father wisely done,

Jean de La Fontaine

The Workingman.

    God bless the brawny arms of toil,
        The noble hearts and royal hands,
    That plow the plain and seed the soil,
        And grow the grains of laughing lands!
    King in the blessed vales of life
        Where perfect pleasures first began,
    May blessings come with raptures rife
        To crown the humble workingman!

    His kingdoms wave with bannered corn
        And meadows bright with fairy bloom,
    While duties of his heart are born
        Where sylvan shadows hide the gloom;
    Sweet Nature fills his heart with health,
        While rustic warbles lead his soul
    Where rill and fountain sing by stealth
        And breezes soft with music roll.

    He lives where simple wishes throng,
        And give contentment to...

Freeman Edwin Miller

The Lay Of The Laborer.

A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will -
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's rugged school.

To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the ...

Thomas Hood

My Father Was A Farmer.

Tune - "The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."


I.

    My father was a farmer
        Upon the Carrick border, O,
    And carefully he bred me,
        In decency and order, O;
    He bade me act a manly part,
        Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
    For without an honest manly heart,
        No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

    Then out into the world
        My course I did determine, O;
    Tho' to be rich was not my wish,
        yet to be great was charming, O:
    My talents they were not the worst,
        Nor yet my education, O;
    Resolv'd was I, at least to try,
        To mend my situation, O.

III.

    In many a way, and vain essay,
        I courted fortune's favour, O;

Robert Burns