Ho! brother ox! drive the plough deep.
[Steady, my sister, steady!]
The peasants work, but the usurers rest
Till harvest's ripe to reap."
So on and on interminably, the chant and the furrow, the furrow and the chant, both bringing the same refrain of flattery and abuse, the same antithesis--the peasant and the usurer face to face in conflict, and above them both the fateful sky, changeless or changeful as it chooses.
The sun climbed up and up till the blue hardened into brass, and the mere thought of rain seemed lost in the blaze of light. Yet Jaimul, as he finally unhitched his plough, chanted away in serene confidence--
"Merry drops slanting from west to east,
Ho! brother ox! drive home the wain;
'Tis the usurer's belly that gets the least
When Râm sends poor folk rain."