Chapter I: Plough Song

Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud!
_Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed_;
For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowed
As the hungry little ones round her crowd.
'Tis the _buniya's_ belly grows fat and proud
When poor folk are in need.

Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast--
_Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep_;
For the wind may blow from the north or west,
And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest,
Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest,
Ere harvest's ripe to reap.

Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind--
_Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight_;
For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind,
While the hungry little ones garlands bind
Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined,
On whom we poor folk wait.

Merry drops slanting from south and east--
_Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain_;
For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast.
There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast;
'Tis the _buniya's_ belly that gets the least
When Ram sends poor folk rain.