The Happy Ploughman.

The ploughman rises with the lark,
And hastens to his daily toil,
And labours hard from dawn till dark
To earn his bread, and till the soil.

The rose blooms on his ruddy cheek,
No tear of sorrow damps his eye,
He pursues his task week to week
Without a murmur or a sigh.

O'er furrow'd fields at ev'ning's close
The happy ploughman wends his way,
And homeward steers to seek repose
From toilsome duties of the day.

His good housewife and only child
With kind words greet him at the gate,
And love him with hearts undefiled,
Such is the ploughman's happy state.

Within his cot dwells peace of mind,
Sweet contentment, love and joy;
His thoughts are of the purest kind,
His greatest pride's his wife and boy.