The Lowland Ploughman
THE team is stabled up, my lass,
The dew lies thick and grey;
Beyond the world, the long green light
Clings to the edge of day.
By farm and fold the work is still,
Their breath the beanflowers yield,
And, in the dusk, the gowand stand
Like moons along the field.
A little ghost alone, my dear,
The night moth flitters by;
Beside the hedge I’m lonely too,
Although no ghost am I.
Leave the gudeman to mind the hearth,
The wife to mend the fire,
Nor heed the lads whose voices come
In mirth from yard and byre.
The evening star is up, my dear,
And oh! the night is sweet,
Come through the heavy drops that bend
The grasses at your feet.
For I am young and I am strong
And well can work for two,
And ’tis a year, come Martinmas,
I’ve loved no lass but you.
And, in a year, come Martinmas,
Before the fields are sown,
I will not need to walk nor stray
Between the lights alone.
For then the cot beyond the farm
A happy man will hold,
A wife who wears a golden ring
To match her hair of gold.
