
THE MANYDOWN PLOUGHMAN'S SONG
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An old man ploughed on Battledown Farm in a springtime long ago; and betimes he sang as he followed the horses to and fro. His song was often a sad one, of a lover seen no more. Or of men who longed for their country, on some far, foreign shore. Apart, he toiled with his furrows, as he added one by one, with an even tread and steady until the day was done. A young man ploughs on Battledown Farm. It's springtime once again, and a strange new "yoke" he's guiding, with wheel but not with rein. |
This lad hears music from headphones, on a rhythm loud and strong. He can talk to the man in the farmyard, the time seems never long. Not one, but many furrows does he made on each swift run. And the field, green at mid-day, is brown at the setting sun. Yet still the vision is with me of that ploughman long ago. And with memory's ear I can listen, to his singing soft and low. |
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| WJH | ||