Plough Monday 2024

The agent said we had a choice: We might go or stay,
But either way our horses would be sold.
For what takes us a week could now be done in ’alf a day 
By newer ways. (At least that’s what we’re told!)

For the harness and horse colour gather dust upon the wall.

There’s no work now for the ploughboy or the team.

For there’s rust upon the ploughshare, empty echoes in the stall,

Now the ploughing’s done by contract, and with steam.

The ploughman once within the stable yard was king,
And Lord ’ee was a tyrant if ’ee found a horse abused,
’As lost ’is place, been pensioned off, as if to ease the sting,  

Still reckons that ’ee finds ’imself ill-used.

For the harness and horse colour gather dust upon the wall.

There’s no work now for the ploughboy or the team.

For there’s rust upon the ploughshare, empty echoes in the stall, 

Now the ploughing’s done by contract, and with steam.

 

The girl who with the ploughboy spends ’er evenings walking out
Now says she finds ’im out of touch and slow,
And because she wants a man ’oo knows what ’ee’s about 

Takes a greasy-handed driver for her beau

For the harness and horse colour gather dust upon the wall.

There’s no work now for the ploughboy or the team.

For there’s rust upon the ploughshare, empty echoes in the stall,

Now the ploughing’s done by contract, and with steam.

 
No more the cheery whistle! No more the whiplash crack!
No more the single furrow straight and true!
But an iron-throated whistle, then another answers back,
As a wire rope pulls seven furrows through.
 

Now the harness and horse colour gather dust upon the wall.

There’s no work now for the ploughboy or the team.

For there’s rust upon the ploughshare, empty echoes in the stall,

Now the ploughing’s done by contract, and with steam.

 
There’s smoke above the headland where the horses used to turn,
The air is filled with oil and with steam,
And over all the reek of coal the traction engines burn,
Now that strangers do the ploughing with machines.
 

For the harness and horse colour gather dust upon the wall.

There’s no work now for the ploughboy or the team.

For there’s rust upon the ploughshare, empty echoes in the stall,

Now the ploughing’s done by contract, and with steam.

Now the ploughing’s done by contract, and with steam.