Classic Poem

The merthe of all this land
Maketh the good husband
With ering of his plow.
Y-blessed be Cristes sand
That hath us sent in hand
Merthe and joye y-now.

The plow goth many a gate
Both erly and eke late
In winter in the clay,
About barly and whete,
That maketh men to swete:
God spede the plow al day!

Brown, Morel and Gore
Drawen the plow ful sore
Al in the morwening;
Rewarde hem ther-fòre
With a shefe or more
Al in the evening.

When men begin to sowe,
Ful wel her corn they knowe
In the mounthe of May.
However Janiver blowe,
Whether hye or lowe,
God spede the plow allway!

When men beginneth to wede
The thistle fro the sede
In sumer when they may,
God lete hem wel to spede;
And long good life to lede
All that for plowmen pray.