Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,
Unruffled by passion or guile;
And fair be the face of the woman
Who blesses his love with a smile.
His clothing, though russet and homely,
With royalty's robe may compare;
His cottage, though simple, is comely,
For peace and contentment are there.
Let monarchs exult in their splendour,
When courtiers obsequiously bow;
But are not their greatness and grandeur
Sustain'd by the toils of the plough?
The soldier may glory discover
In havock which warfare hath made;
For the shout of his fame rises over
The vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.
Though pride, in her trappings so dainty,
May sneer with contemptuous air;
Fertility, pleasure, and plenty,
Still follow the track of the share.
And long may the heart of the ploughman
In virtue and vigour beat high;
His calling, though simple and common,
Our wants and our comforts supply.