"In the barren soil may the ploughshare rust, While the sword grows bright with its fatal labor, And blackens between each man and neighbor The perilous cloud of a vague distrust!

"May the ploughshare shine.

The skies are jewelled all around, The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, The Finn with face like paper And eyes like a lighted taper Hurls his rough rune At the wintry moon And stamps to mark the tune.