THE SONG OF THE HARROW AND THE PLOW
poem by: Holman F. Day from his book “Up In Maine” written in the year 1900
melody by Elsie Gawler
some words adapted by elsie gawler (in parenthesis)
And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant strain.
They are lilting it merrily now.
It is the song we wait for here up in Maine,
It’s the song of the harrow and plow.
And every nose is sniffing at the scent of furrowed earth,
And every man (woman) is living all of life at what it’s worth.
Though the farmer in Aroostook sails across a velvet field,
And his (her) mellow, crumbly acres vomit forth a spendthrift yield,
All the rest are just as cheerful on their hillside farms as he (she)
For there’s cosy wealth in gardens and a fortune in a tree.
And the man (woman) who rides the planter or who plods the broken earth
Joins and swells the mighty chorus of the season’s budding mirth
And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant strain.
Lilting it merrily now.
It is the song we wait for here up in Maine,
It’s the song of the harrow and plow.
So they’re singing the song of the coming the of Spring,
And the song of the empty mow;
Of the quiver of birth that is stirring the earth,
It’s the song of the harrow and plow.
From the acres of Aroostook, broad and mellow in the sun,
Down to rocky York, the chorus of the farmers has begun.
They are riding in Aroostook on a patent sulky plow,
They are riding, taking comfort, for they’ve learned the secret how.
They are planting their potatoes with a whirring new machine,
Driver sits beneath an awning; slickest thing you’ve ever seen.
There is not a rock to vex ’em in the acres spreading wide,
So they sit upon a cushion, cock their legs, and smoke and ride.
And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant strain.
They are lilting it merrily now.
It is the song we wait for here up in Maine,
It’s the song of the harrow and plow.
Gee and Bright go lurching onward in the furrow’s mellow steam;
Over there, with clank of whiffle, tugs a sturdy Morgan team.
And the man who rides the planter or who plods the broken earth
Joins and swells the mighty chorus of the season’s budding mirth.
They are picking rocks in Oxford, and in Waldo blasting ledge,
And they’re farming down in Lincoln on their acres set on edge.
Down among the kitchen gardens of the slopes of Cumberland
They’re sticking in the garden sass as thick as it will stand.