 | Ballads and Other Poems |  |
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THE BARLEY-MOWERS' SONG.
Barley-mowers here we stand,
One, two, three, a steady band;
True of heart and strong of limb,
Ready in our harvest-trim;
All arow, with spirits blithe,
Now we whet the bended scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
One, two, three, a steady band;
True of heart and strong of limb,
Ready in our harvest-trim;
All arow, with spirits blithe,
Now we whet the bended scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Side by side now, bending low,
Down the swaths of barley go;
Stroke by stroke, as true as chime
Of the bells we keep in time:
Then we whet the ringing scythe,
Standing 'mid the barley lithe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Down the swaths of barley go;
Stroke by stroke, as true as chime
Of the bells we keep in time:
Then we whet the ringing scythe,
Standing 'mid the barley lithe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
After labour cometh case;
Sitting now beneath the trees,
Round we send the barley-wine,
Life-infusing, clear and fine;
Then refreshed, alert and blithe,
Rise we all, and whet the scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Sitting now beneath the trees,
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Life-infusing, clear and fine;
Then refreshed, alert and blithe,
Rise we all, and whet the scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Barley-mowers must be true,
Keeping still the end in view;
One with all, and all with one,
Working on till set of sun;
Bending all with spirits blithe,
Whetting all at once the scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Keeping still the end in view;
One with all, and all with one,
Working on till set of sun;
Bending all with spirits blithe,
Whetting all at once the scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Day and night, and night and day,
Time, the mower, will not stay:
We may hear him in our path
By the falling barley-swath;
While we sing with spirits blithe,
We may hear his ringing scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
Time, the mower, will not stay:
We may hear him in our path
By the falling barley-swath;
While we sing with spirits blithe,
We may hear his ringing scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
297
Time the mower cuts down all,
High and low, and great and small:
Fear him not, for we will grow
Ready like the field we mow;
Like the bending barley lithe,
Ready for Time's whetted scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
High and low, and great and small:
Fear him not, for we will grow
Ready like the field we mow;
Like the bending barley lithe,
Ready for Time's whetted scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!
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