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We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes: When all is home to mow-yard, we'll kneel and thank the Lord. The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn! Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the moon, We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born. The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!
And here was our own mow-yard, better filled than we could remember, and perhaps every sheaf in it destined to be burned or stolen, before we had finished the bread we had baked. Among all these troubles, there was, however, or seemed to be, one comfort.
Run to the house and fetch Master Stickles, and all the men; while I stay here, and watch the rick-yard. Perhaps I was wrong in heeding the ricks at such a time as that; especially as only the clover was of much importance. But it seemed to me like a sort of triumph that they should be even able to boast of having fired our mow-yard.
Now I had not been so very long waiting in our mow-yard, with my best gun ready, and a big club by me, before a heaviness of sleep began to creep upon me. The flow of water was in my ears, and in my eyes a hazy spreading, and upon my brain a closure, as a cobbler sews a vamp up.
Now I had not been so very long waiting in our mow-yard, with my best gun ready, and a big club by me, before a heaviness of sleep began to creep upon me. The flow of water was in my ears, and in my eyes a hazy spreading, and upon my brain a closure, as a cobbler sews a vamp up.
We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat! All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head, Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red: 'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet. The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat!
Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat, But fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime! All the day it has been rustling, with its bristles brown, Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown! 'Tis the harvest and the barley must abide its time.
Run to the house and fetch Master Stickles, and all the men; while I stay here, and watch the rick-yard." Perhaps I was wrong in heeding the ricks at such a time as that; especially as only the clover was of much importance. But it seemed to me like a sort of triumph that they should be even able to boast of having fired our mow-yard.
And here was our own mow-yard, better filled than we could remember, and perhaps every sheaf in it destined to be burned or stolen, before we had finished the bread we had baked. Among all these troubles, there was, however, or seemed to be, one comfort.
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown! Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board! We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down; When all is in the mow-yard, we'll stop, and thank the Lord. The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats!