On Presenting a Plough to a Clergyman
From Miscellaneous Poems by Francis Boyle (Belfast, 1811)
Dear Reverent sir, here is your pleugh
Her timber's season't weel eneugh,
Cut aff the bank aboon the sheugh,
Whare guid aish grows;
He puts nae rubbish, dosed or rough,
In Clergy ploughs.
Her beam weel harness't wi' a hack,
As guid as Johnny Ross could mak';
An' coulter-band that winna slack,
Or let it rive;
Whan ploughmen whiles the hatchet tak
An' wadges drive.
Her form is neat, her handles fine,
Three coats o' paint do mak' her shine,
Nae pleugh like her was made langsyne,
In days o' yore;
She bears the brag o' Ballyhine,
An' search it o'er.
If ye hae got a guid ploughman,
A fittie-furr an' fittie-lan';
That never jostle, snap, or stan',
An' driver guid;
Then ilka day in sax hours gaun,
She'll turn three rood.
Although her price be very high,
If ye tak' care an' keep her dry,
An' lay her in a shade to lie,
Frae rain an' snaw,
Ere seven winters hae past by,
She'll pay it a'.
This pleugh's no' made to rin on wheels,
Like them at Hampton town or Sheals;
Or ithers, made by Scottish chiels,
Poor silly gowks;
Sic pleughs wad never till our fields,
Amang the rocks.
There's ither pleughs are cried up niest,
Wi' a pot-metal sock an' reest;
Sald for five guineas at the least, —
They'll no' be bought by onie priest,
They're a' owre wise.
An there's as guid a double tree,
(I weel may say't without a lie;)
As ever yet was bought by me,
At onie price;
Ye needna care wha does it see,
It's strong an' nice.