Other Region

The sun has gone down and the sky it looks red, The ploughshare is turning the ground where I’ve led; The furrows I make as I follow the plough, Are the marks of my labour, my sweat on my brow.

I am a blacksmith by my trade, From London I came down; I am an obstinate swaggering blade, Not like some country clown.

Let the wealthy and great Roll in splendor and state, I envy them not, I declare it. I eat my own lamb, My chickens and ham, I shear my own sheep and I wear it.

Twas of a brisk young ploughboy, come listen to this refrain And join with me in chorus and sing the ploughboy’s praise. My song is of the ploughboy’s praise and unto you I’ll relate the same, He whistles and sings and drives his plough, the brave ploughboy.

All jolly fellows that follow the plough, We'll have a good ale, and we'll make a good row. We rise in the morning by five o'clock, And soon we're all harnessed and yoked to the plough.

How happy is the little child Who tends his flock alone, While o’er him spreads the silent sky And peace is all his own.

When first I went a-waggoning, a-waggoning I did go,I filled me parents’ hearts with sorrow, grief, and woe.And many are the hardships that

I am a jolly thresherman, I work both late and soon, To try and earn my living in the cold and frost of noon. The farmer he comes up to me and this to me does say: “My lad, if you will thresh for me, I’ll see you well repaid.”

The lark in the morning she rises from her nest, She mounts into the air with the dew on her breast. ’Twas down in yonder meadow I carelessly did stray, For there’s no-one like the ploughboy in the merry month of May.