 | Dorothy |  |
Now was the autumn come, and ploughers went forth to their ploughing;
After the harvest was done, after the stubble was glean'd;
Ploughing the cornlands in, and turning up some of the fallows;
Getting all ready to sow crops for the incoming year.
Oh, how delightful to see the exquisite sweep of the furrows
Climbing in regular lines over the side of the hill!
Stretching in beautiful curves, as it seems at a distance, but really
Straight as the strings of a harp; ranged in great octaves, like them.
For you shall see, in the sun, all purple and steely and shining,
Ranges of long bright lines, all of them strictly alike;
But, at the end of each range, at equal intervals always,
Comes a great deep bass line, carved like a trench—as it is.
Masterly art, in its way, and noble, the art of the ploughman!
Well might our Dorothy feel proud of its ‘glory and joy!’
For she was ploughing too; in the cool sweet air of October
She too was out with the morn, scoring the slopes of the hill.
Under a hedge by the wood stood her plough, with its yoketree of scarlet—
Symbol of all good work—waiting till Dolly should come;
Till she had harness'd the team, and with Billy the boy to attend her,
Rode on the foremost horse, fresh for her labour of love.
For 'twas a labour of love, whereby she was earning her living:
What can be better than that, either for woman or man?
Always to feel that your work is a thing that you know and are fit for,
Always to love it, and feel ‘Yes, I am doing it well’!
That was what Dorothy felt, though she couldn't have told you her feelings,
While she strode over the field after her horses, at plough;
Driving her furrows so straight, and trenching them round at the hedgerows,
Guiding the stilts with a grasp skilful and strong as a man's.
After the harvest was done, after the stubble was glean'd;
Ploughing the cornlands in, and turning up some of the fallows;
Getting all ready to sow crops for the incoming year.
Oh, how delightful to see the exquisite sweep of the furrows
Climbing in regular lines over the side of the hill!
Stretching in beautiful curves, as it seems at a distance, but really
Straight as the strings of a harp; ranged in great octaves, like them.
For you shall see, in the sun, all purple and steely and shining,
Ranges of long bright lines, all of them strictly alike;
But, at the end of each range, at equal intervals always,
Comes a great deep bass line, carved like a trench—as it is.
Masterly art, in its way, and noble, the art of the ploughman!
Well might our Dorothy feel proud of its ‘glory and joy!’
For she was ploughing too; in the cool sweet air of October
She too was out with the morn, scoring the slopes of the hill.
Under a hedge by the wood stood her plough, with its yoketree of scarlet—
Symbol of all good work—waiting till Dolly should come;
Till she had harness'd the team, and with Billy the boy to attend her,
Rode on the foremost horse, fresh for her labour of love.
For 'twas a labour of love, whereby she was earning her living:
What can be better than that, either for woman or man?
Always to feel that your work is a thing that you know and are fit for,
Always to love it, and feel ‘Yes, I am doing it well’!
That was what Dorothy felt, though she couldn't have told you her feelings,
While she strode over the field after her horses, at plough;
35
Guiding the stilts with a grasp skilful and strong as a man's.
Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet cool air of October,
High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts of the wood,
Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not sooner describe it?)
Just such a dress as they all—all the farm-servants around:
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and a fitness—
Colour and pattern and shape suited so aptly to her.
First, on her well-set head a lilac hood-bonnet of cotton,
Framing her amberbright hair, shading her neck from the sun;
Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red kerchief of woollen,
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her berry-brown skin;
Then came a blue cotton frock—dark blue, and spotted with yellow—
Sleeved to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny arms bare;
So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim dull blue for a background,
Seem'd not so rough as they were—softer in colour and grain.
All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted,
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg:
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various colour
Striped on a blue-grey ground: sober, and modest, and warm;
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings;
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear:
Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature:
Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels.
After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows,
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours!
High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts of the wood,
Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not sooner describe it?)
Just such a dress as they all—all the farm-servants around:
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and a fitness—
Colour and pattern and shape suited so aptly to her.
First, on her well-set head a lilac hood-bonnet of cotton,
Framing her amberbright hair, shading her neck from the sun;
Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red kerchief of woollen,
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her berry-brown skin;
Then came a blue cotton frock—dark blue, and spotted with yellow—
Sleeved to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny arms bare;
So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim dull blue for a background,
Seem'd not so rough as they were—softer in colour and grain.
All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted,
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg:
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various colour
Striped on a blue-grey ground: sober, and modest, and warm;
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings;
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear:
Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature:
Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels.
After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows,
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours!
| Dorothy | |