Across the fields he drives his team,
While winter’s frost doth glitter bright;
And through the furrows rolls the stream,
Reflecting pale the morning light.
His hands are rough, his face is worn,
By many a day and many a storm;
Yet in his heart no grudge is borne,
He follows duty’s steady form.
The earth he tills with patient care,
Sows the seed, reaps the harvest fair;
And though no crowd shall cheer his name,
The work of life is still his aim.