  Though clouds o'ercast our native sky, And seem to dim the sun, We will not down in languor lie, Or deem the day is done: The rural arts we loved before No less we'll cherish now; And crown the banquet, as of yore, With Honour to the Plough. In these fair fields, whose peaceful spoil To faith and hope are given, We'll seek the prize with honest toil, And leave the rest to Heaven. We'll gird us to our work like men Who own a holy vow, And if in joy we meet again, Give Honour to the Plough. Let Art, array'd in magic power, With Labour hand in hand, Go forth, and now in peril's hour Sustain a sinking land. Let never Sloth unnerve the arm, Or Fear the spirit cow; These words alone should work a charm— All Honour to the Plough. The heath redress, the meadow drain, The latent swamp explore, And o'er the long-expecting plain Diffuse the quickening store: Then fearless urge the furrow deep Up to the mountain's brow, And when the rich results you reap, Give Honour to the plough. So still shall Health by pastures green And nodding harvests roam, And still behind her rustic screen Shall Virtue find a home: And while their bower the muses build Beneath the neighbouring bough, Shall many a grateful verse be fill'd With Honour to the Plough. |
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