| |
| “GOD speed the plough!” be this a prayer | |
| To find its echo everywhere; | |
| But curses on the iron hand | |
| That grasps one rood of “common” land. | |
| Sure there’s enough of earth beside, | 5 |
| Held by the sons of Wealth and Pride; | |
| Their glebe is wide enough without | |
| Our “commons” being fenced about! | |
| |
| We guard the spot where steeples rise | |
| In stately grandeur to the skies; | 10 |
| We mark the place where altars shine, | |
| As hallowed, sainted, and divine; | |
| And just as sacred should we hold | |
| The turf, where peasants blithe and bold, | |
| Can plant their footsteps day or night, | 15 |
| In free, unquestioned, native right. | |
| |
| The common range—the common range— | |
| Oh! guard it from invading change; | |
| Though rough, ’tis rich—though poor, ’tis blest, | |
| And will be while the skylark’s nest | 20 |
| And early violets are there, | |
| Filling with sweetness earth and air. | |
| |
| It glads the eye—it warms the soul, | |
| To gaze upon the rugged knoll; | |
| Where tangled brushwood twines across | 25 |
| The straggling brake and sedgy moss. | |
| Oh! who would give the blackthorn leaves | |
| For harvest’s full and rustling sheaves? | |
| Oh! who would have the grain spring up | |
| Where now we find the daisy’s cup; | 30 |
| Where clumps of dark red heather gleam, | |
| With beauty in the summer beam— | |
| And yellow furze-bloom laughs to scorn | |
| Your ripened hops and bursting corn? | |
| “God speed the plough!” but let us trace | 35 |
| Something of Nature’s infant face; | |
| Let us behold some spot where man | |
| Has not yet set his “bar and ban”; | |
| Leave us the green wastes, fresh and wild, | |
| For poor man’s beast and poor man’s child! | 40 |
| |
| ’Tis well to turn our trusty steeds | |
| In chosen stalls and clover meads; | |
| We like to see our “gallant grey” | |
| Snuff daintily his fragrant hay; | |
| But the poor sandman’s “Blind old Ball” | 45 |
| Lacks grooms and clover, oats and stall. | |
| |
| With tired limbs and bleeding back | |
| He takes his steady, homeward track; | |
| The hovel gained, he neighs with glee, | |
| From burthen, whip, and bridle free: | 50 |
| Turned forth he flings his bony length; | |
| And rolls with all his waning strength; | |
| Up on his trembling legs again, | |
| He shakes himself from tail to mane, | |
| And, nibbling with a grateful zest, | 55 |
| Finds on “the common” food and rest. | |
| |
| Hark to the shouts of peasant boys, | |
| With ill-carved bats, and unchecked noise! | |
| While “cricket,” with its light-heeled mirth, | |
| Leaves scars upon the grassy earth | 60 |
| Too deeply lined by Summer’s play, | |
| For Winter’s storms to wear away. | |
| Spent by the game, they rove apart, | |
| With lounging form and careless heart; | |
| One by the rushy pond will float | 65 |
| Old “Dilworth” in a paper boat; | |
| Another wades, with legs all bare, | |
| To pluck the water-lily fair; | |
| Others will sit and chatter o’er | |
| The village fund of cricket lore— | 70 |
| Quote this rare “catch,” and that bold “run,” | |
| Till, having gossiped down the sun, | |
| They promise, with a loud “Good night!” | |
| That, if to-morrow’s sky be bright, | |
| They’ll be again where they have been | 75 |
| For years—upon the “common green.” | |
| |
| The chicken tribe—the duckling brood, | |
| Go there to scratch their daily food; | |
| The woodman’s colt—the widow’s cows, | |
| Unwatched—untethered—there may browse; | 80 |
| And though the pasturage be scant, | |
| It saves from keen and starving want. | |
| |
| “God speed the plough!” let fields be tilled, | |
| Let ricks be heaped and garners filled; | |
| ’Tis good to count the Autumn gold, | 85 |
| And try how much our barns can hold: | |
| But every English heart will tell | |
| It loves an “English common” well; | |
| And curse the hard and griping hand | |
| That wrests away such “hallowed” land: | 90 |
| That shuts the green waste, fresh and wild: | |
| From poor man’s beast and poor man’s child. | |
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