Let those who seek for festal sport
To ball and banquet-hall resort;
Let those who in the city choke,
Remain to doze, 'mid haze and smoke,
While we escape the Babel mass,
And to the free fresh country pass.
What though, 'mid early winter, now
The snow-flakes clothe each naked bough,
Though dark-brown fields are powder'd o'er
With gleaming stars of silver hoar,
Though cold east winds bite fierce and chill,
And howling sweep around the hill, —
Though infant ice, to curlers dear,
Begin to creep o'er waters clear, —
Though frost hath steel'd the wheel-track'd road,
It cannot yet have pierced the clod;
Then, on! this day's the last we'll catch
To hold our annual ploughing-match.

Long have our ploughmen been intent
Preparing for this great event,
For twelve long months away have pass'd
Since parish ploughing-match was last,
And now, from youth to manhood grown,
Aspirants new for fame press on.
Each wears his garb of homely plaidin',
Spun by his own, his plighted maiden,
Who thinks her gift must have a charm
To fire his heart and nerve his arm,
And fondly hopes his triumph may
Haste on their happy bridal-day.

And now yon ample field behold!
Refresh'd by rest, the deep rich mould
Shall soon, by art impell'd, again
Yield generous crops of golden grain.
In phalanx ranged along the field
Are fourscore men of stalwart build,
Their hearts and limbs with vigour braced,
Their heads with broad blue bonnets graced,
Their massive steeds are champing seen,
Their temper'd ploughshares glisten keen;
When, lo! the starting signal flies,
And " High! gee, wo! " each ploughman cries.
Now, " Hup! " they're off, — God speed them all!
The game they play nor mean nor small,
Godlike in art, as well as aim,
Such feats give Science proudest fame,
To raise rich grain where heath had grown,
To grow two sheaves instead of one.

Now mark the work, how deftly done,
The ploughman, horse, and plough seem one;
And straight as arrow from a bow,
Moves on each well-directed plough;
The old lea ground, pierced to the core,
Is turn'd in ridges gently o'er,
And joys to feel the sun again,
That, gleaming o'er the crisping plain,
Makes plough and harness gleam more bright,
And clears the ploughman's falcon sight,
And by his rays tests each straight ridge,
As he were sole appointed judge.

The short-lived day hath nightly gone,
The sturdy ploughmen's task is done;
Athwart the field the judges pace,
With care and skill to mete and trace
The depth and width of ridge and fur:
No fault they pass, no flaw they slur,
Acute each judge, severe each test;
The prize is gained — Tam Ker ploughs best.

Eager the victor's name to hear,
Farmers and ploughmen gather near;
While Ædie Gray, in homely speech,
Regrets there's not a prize for each,
And while he cheers those who have lost,
He warns the winner not to boast;
But Tam's broad brow and sparkling eye
Defy successful rivalry.

Hail! humble patriotic band,
Enriching thus your native land,
Compelling sterile muirs to yield
The trophies of the harvest field,
And crowning lofty mountain-tops
With generous and luxuriant crops.
Though humble labour be your lot,
Though by the rich and great forgot,
Though man, whose heart should grateful glow,
May not his benefactors know,
Your trophies gird Earth's ample brow,
And God will ever speed the plough.