Five teams at plough,
All at plough together . . .
Red the beeches bough,
Crisp and cold the weather.

Bright shares cleaving
Through the frosty clods,
Strong flanks heaving
While the ploughman plods.

Whirling loud and clear
Up the field’s long shoulder,
Starlings flocking near
Chilly days make bolder.

Bare the copses now,
Brisk and keen the weather;
Bright-eyed on the bough
Robin puffs a feather . . .
And there are five teams at plough,
All at plough together.