With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,
In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;
I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,
And there will I manfully cut my way.
Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;
I bring down the waving grain quite low.
Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,
But cheerful on, and still on I go.
I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,
The toil and care will be well repaid;
For this golden store drives want from my door,
And the surplus is farmers’ profit made.
Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race
Will tell on the field ere night come in;
And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,
Until a new day with its toil begin.
O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,
The shocks in good order standing round,
And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,
Are now trotting briskly over the ground.
Then hasten the day when our grain and hay
Well secured beneath our good barn dome —
Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts
In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.