Dearer than, for treasured gold,
Even in King Arthur's form,
Castles to besiege and storm.

If the labourer were sped,
Where would be Christ's Wine and Bread?
Certes but for his supply,
Pope and Emperor must die,
Every wine-free King and just,
Yea! each mortal turn to dust.

Blest indeed is he whose hands
Steer the plough o'er stubborn lands.
How through far-spread broom and heath
Tear his sharp, smooth coulter's teeth--
Old-time relic, heron-bill,
Rooting out fresh furrows still,
With a noble, skilful grace
Smoothing all the wild land's face,
Reaching out a stern, stiff neck
Each resisting root to wreck.

* * * * *

Behind his oxen on his path
Thus he strides the healthy strath,
Chanting many a godly rhyme
To the plough-chain's silver chime.
All the crafts that ever were
With the Ploughman's ill compare.