Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming,
Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming,
Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay,
And the country's ready for the harvest day;
Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing,
Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing,
Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap,
And in the sun, the horses lie asleep.
Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready,
Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady,
Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying,
And the barley — white as driven snow — is dying;
When overhead, the harvest moon rides full,
And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool;
While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn,
And farmers smile across the level Hurn.
Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh,
And swifts by millions, flit about the sky,
When thatchers all get busy with their pegs,
And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs;
When inns at night, are full of tired men,
Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen;
Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam;
Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home.