 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
34
Scythe Song
Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know—
Endless over-word that the scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the scythe to the flowers and grass?
What is the word methinks ye know—
Endless over-word that the scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the scythe to the flowers and grass?
Hush, ah bush, the scythes are saying,
Hush, and beed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush—'tis the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and beed not, for all things pass,
Hush, ah hush! and the scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass.
Hush, and beed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush—'tis the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and beed not, for all things pass,
Hush, ah hush! and the scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |