 | Songs of Democracy |  |
SONG OF THE DAYLABORERS.
Sharpen the sickle, the fields are white;
'Tis the time of the harvest at last.
Reapers, be up with the morning-light,
Ere the blush of its youth be past.
Why stand on the highway and lounge at the gate,
With a summerday's work to perform?
If you wait for the hiring 'tis long you may wait—
Till the hour of the night and the storm.
'Tis the time of the harvest at last.
Reapers, be up with the morning-light,
Ere the blush of its youth be past.
Why stand on the highway and lounge at the gate,
With a summerday's work to perform?
If you wait for the hiring 'tis long you may wait—
Till the hour of the night and the storm.
Sharpen the sickle; how proud they stand
In the pomp of their golden grain!
But I'm thinking, ere noon 'neath the sweep of my hand
How many will lie on the plain!
Though the ditch be wide, the fence be high,
There's a spirit to carry us o'er:
For God never meant his people to die
In sight of so rich a store.
In the pomp of their golden grain!
But I'm thinking, ere noon 'neath the sweep of my hand
How many will lie on the plain!
Though the ditch be wide, the fence be high,
There's a spirit to carry us o'er:
For God never meant his people to die
In sight of so rich a store.
Sharpen the sickle; how full the ears!
Our children are crying for bread;
And the field has been watered with orphans' tears
And enriched with their fathers dead;
And hopes that are buried, and hearts that broke,
Lie deep in the treasuring sod:
Then sweep down the grain with a thunder-stroke,
In the name of humanity's God!
Our children are crying for bread;
And the field has been watered with orphans' tears
And enriched with their fathers dead;
And hopes that are buried, and hearts that broke,
Lie deep in the treasuring sod:
Then sweep down the grain with a thunder-stroke,
In the name of humanity's God!
| Songs of Democracy | |