NO maiden dream, nor fancy theme,
Brown Labour's muse would sing;
Her stately mien and russet sheen
Demand a stronger wing.
Long ages since, the sage, the prince,
The man of lordly brow,
All honour gave that army brave,
The Soldiers of the Plough.
Kind Heaven speed the plough,
And bless the hands that guide it!
God gives the seed
The bread we need,
Man's labour must provide it.
In every land, the toiling hand
Is blest as it deserves;
Not so the race who, in disgrace,
From honest labour swerves.
From fairest bowers bring rarest flowers
To deck the swarthy brow
Of him whose toil improves the soil,
The Soldier of the Plough.
Kind Heaven speed the plough,
And bless the hands that guide it!
God gives the seed
The bread we need,
Man's labour must provide it.
Blest is his lot, in hall or cot,
Who lives as Nature wills,
Who pours his corn from Ceres' horn,
And quaffs his native rills;
No breeze that sweeps trade's stormy deeps
Can touch his golden prow.
Their foes are few, their lives are true,
The Soldiers of the Plough.
Kind Heaven speed the plough,
And bless the hands that guide it!
God gives the seed
The bread we need,
Man's labour must provide it.
