Whether ploughin’ pays or pays not,
‘Tis a joy to me
To be marchin’, marchin’, marchin’
Over fields of lea,
Followin’ a swing plough that is
Set as it should be.

Now, we’ve many ploughs new-fashioned –
Chills, an’ all the rest –
But ‘mong ploughmen that are ploughmen,
None can stand the test
Like the good old, clean old swing plough,
Trustiest an’ best.

Still, as times goes forward rollin’
Change will follow change;
Newer, stranger styles succeeding
Methods new and strange.
Labour-saving, labour-killing
Men will onward range.

Let them range, while I go marchin’,
Marchin’ up and down;
Listnin’ to the music that was
Never heard in town;
Rollin’ down the verdant ribbons,
Raisin combs of brown.

Cool and clean and sweet the breezes
Blow upon my brow;
Many a bird is singin’ up on
Many a buddin’ bough,
And the heart within me’s singin’
To my team an’ plough.

MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone