I am a ploughboy,
stout and strong as ever,
drove a team
and three years since as a layabed I had a dreadful dream.
I dreamt I drove my master's team,
three horses travelled far,
before a stiff and armoured plough as all my masters are.
I found the ground was baked so hard,
was more like bricks than clay.
I could not cut my furrow through,
nor would my beasts obey.
The more I whipped and slashed and swore,
the less my horses tried.
Dobbin lay down and Bell and Star ignored my threats and cries.
Still low above me appeared a youth,
he seemed to hang in air.
And all around a dazzling light which made my eyes to stare.
Give over,
cruel wretch,
you cry,
do not thy beasts abuse.
Think if the ground was not so hard,
they would their work refuse.
Besides I heard thee curse and swear as if dumb beasts could know.
But watch your oaths and cursing,
meant it's better far than gold.
That you should know that there is one who knows thy sins full well.
And what shall be thine after doom,
another shall thee tell.
No more said but light as there he vanished from my sight.
And with him went the sun's bright beams,
was all as dark as night.
The thunder roared from underground,
the earth it seemed to gape.
Blue flames broke forth and in those flames appeared a part of shame.
I shall call thee mine,
he cried with a voice so clear and true.
And quivering like an aspen leaf I woke out of my sleep.
So ponder well,
you plowboys,
all this dream that I have told.
And if the work goes hard with you,
it's worth your waiting called done.