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,