From the Five Rivers

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

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.