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The ploughs are propped by the farmyard fence

To rust with the harrow tines,

The horses graze where the grass is best,

Untouched by the long plough lines.

Their shoulders heal with the rest, and hair

Will grow on the scars again,

The hames and collars are hung aside,

With many a work-worn chain.

The empty bags over the beams hang,

And seed that was left stands by,

And no team halts at the head land fence,

No ploughman the lines untie.

No bell is heard, or the heavy thud

Of hoofs ere the break of day,

No ploughman’s voice at the stable door,

And seldom a horse’s neigh,

Men breakfast not by a candle light,

To rush with an eager haste,

To get to work ere the stars are gone,

No hour of the day to waste,

For with the seed in the drill at dawn,

Though horses and man seemed thin,

The fanner vowed there would be no rest

By day till the wheat was in!

And now the rain on the roof above

May fall, with a merry din,

The farmer sleeps through the winter nights

Content that the wheat is in.

Or while the moon lights the frosty air,

He dreams of the hard blue-stone,

And talks aloud of the undressed wheat,

For fields that he thinks unsown,

And jumps from bed as the clock strikes four

To dress and the work begin,

But dozes off with the pleasant thought,

The wheat—ah, the wheat is in!