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The Ploughboy.
By Kate Seymour Maclean
I wonder what he is thinking
In the ploughing field all day.
He watches the heads of his oxen,
And never looks this way.
And the furrows grow longer and longer,
Around the base of the hill,
And the valley is bright with the sunset,
Yet he ploughs and whistles still.
I am tired of counting the ridges,
Where the oxen come and go,
And of thinking of all the blossoms
That are trampled down below.
I wonder if ever he guesses
That under the ragged brim
Of his torn straw hat I am peeping
To steal a look at him.
The spire of the church and the windows
Are all ablaze in the sun.
He has left the plough in the furrow,
His summer day's work is done.
And I hear him carolling softly
A sweet and simple lay,
That we often have sung together,
While he turns the oxen away.
The buttercups in the pasture
Twinkle and gleam like stars.
He has gathered a golden handful,
A leaning over the bars.
He has shaken the curls from his forehead,
And is looking up this way,--
O where is my sun-bonnet, mother?
He was thinking of me all day,--
And I'm going down to the meadow,
For I know he is waiting there,
To wreathe the sunshiny blossoms
In the curls of my yellow hair.
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