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But it reminded me of something that I had long forgotten.

Many years ago, when I was a little pig, my mother and the other sows used to sing an old song of which they knew only the tune and the first three words.

I had known that tune in my infancy, but it had long since passed out of my mind.

Last night, however, it came back to me in my dream.

And what is more, the words of the song also came back-words, I am certain, which were sung by the animals of long ago and have been lost to memory for generations.

I will sing you that song now, comrades.

I am old and my voice is hoarse, but when I have taught you the tune, you can sing it better for yourselves.

It is called 'Beasts of England'."

Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something between 'Clementine' and 'La Cucaracha'. The words ran:

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,

Beasts of every land and clime,

Hearken to my joyful tidings

Of the golden future time.

Soon or late the day is coming,

Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,

And the fruitful fields of England

Shall be trod by beasts alone.

Rings shall vanish from our noses,

And the harness from our back,

Bit and spur shall rust forever,

Cruel whips no more shall crack.

Riches more than mind can picture,

Wheat and barley, oats and hay,

Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels

Shall be ours upon that day.

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