| |
| THE SUNBURNT mowers are in the swath— | |
| Swing, swing, swing! | |
| The towering lilies loath | |
| Tremble and totter and fall; | |
| The meadow-rue | 5 |
| Dashes its tassels of golden dew; | |
| And the keen blade sweeps o’er all— | |
| Swing, swing, swing! | |
| |
| The flowers, the berries, the feathered grass, | |
| Are thrown in a smothered mass; | 10 |
| Hastens away the butterfly; | |
| With half their burden the brown bees hie; | |
| And the meadow-lark shrieks distrest, | |
| And leaves the poor younglings all in the nest. | |
| The daisies clasp and fall; | 15 |
| And totters the Jacob’s-ladder tall. | |
| Weaving and winding and curving lithe, | |
| O’er plumy hillocks—through dewy hollows, | |
| His subtle scythe | |
| The nodding mower follows— | 20 |
| Swing, swing, swing! | |
| |
| Anon, the chiming whetstones ring— | |
| Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling! | |
| And the mower now | |
| Pauses and wipes his leaded brow. | 25 |
| A moment he scans the fleckless sky; | |
| A moment, the fish-hawk soaring high; | |
| And watches the swallows dip and dive | |
| Anear and far. | |
| They whisk and glimmer, and chatter and strive; | 30 |
| What do they gossip together? | |
| Cunning fellows they are, | |
| Wise prophets to him! | |
| “Higher or lower they circle and skim— | |
| Fair or foul to-morrow’s hay-weather!” | 35 |
| |
| Tallest primroses, or loftiest daisies, | |
| Not a steel-blue feather | |
| Of slim wing grazes: | |
| “Fear not! fear not!” cry the swallows. | |
| Each mower tightens his snath-ring’s wedge, | 40 |
| And his finger daintily follows | |
| The long blade’s tickle-edge; | |
| Softly the whetstone’s last touches ring— | |
| Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling! | |
| Like a leaf-muffled bird in the woodland nigh, | 45 |
| Faintly the fading echoes reply— | |
| Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling! | |
| |
| “Perchance the swallows, that flit in their glee, | |
| Of to-morrow’s hay-weather know little as we!” | |
| Says Farmer Russet. “Be it hidden in shower | 50 |
| Or sunshine, to-morrow we do not own— | |
| To-day is ours alone!— | |
| Not a twinkle we ’ll waste of the golden hour. | |
| Grasp tightly the nibs—give heel and give toe!— | |
| Lay a goodly swath, shaved smooth and low! | 55 |
| Prime is the day— | |
| Swing, swing, swing!” | |
| |
| Farmer Russet is aged and gray— | |
| Gray as the frost, but fresh as the spring, | |
| Straight is he | 60 |
| As the green fir-tree; | |
| And with heart most blithe, and sinews lithe, | |
| He leads the row with his merry scythe. | |
| “Come, boys! strike up the old song | |
| While we circle around— | 65 |
| The song we always in haytime sing— | |
| And let the woods ring, | |
| And the echoes prolong | |
| The merry sound!” | |
| |
SONG July is just in the nick of time! | 70 |
| (Hay-weather, hay-weather;) | |
| The midsummer month is the golden prime | |
| For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme;— | |
| (Swing all together!) | |
| July is just in the nick of time! | 75 |
| |
Chorus O, we ’ll make our hay while the good sun shines— | |
| We ’ll waste not a golden minute! | |
| No shadow of storm the blue arch lines; | |
| We ’ll waste not a minute—not a minute! | |
| For the west-wind is fair; | 80 |
| O, the hay-day is rare!— | |
| The sky is without a brown cloud in it! | |
| |
| June is too early for richest hay; | |
| (Fair weather, fair weather;) | |
| The corn stretches taller the livelong day; | 85 |
| But grass is ever too sappy to lay;— | |
| (Clip all together!) | |
| June is too early for richest hay. | |
| |
| August ’s a month that too far goes by; | |
| (Late weather, late weather;) | 90 |
| Grasshoppers are chipper and kick too high! | |
| And grass that ’s standing is fodder scorched dry;— | |
| (Pull all together!) | |
| August ’s a month that too far goes by. | |
| |
| July is just in the nick of time! | 95 |
| (Best weather, best weather;) | |
| The midsummer month is the golden prime | |
| For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme; | |
| (Strike all together!) | |
| July is just in the nick of time! | 100 |
| |
| Still hiss the scythes! | |
| Shudder the grasses’ defenceless blades— | |
| The lily-throng writhes; | |
| And, as a phalanx of wild geese streams, | |
| Where the shore of April’s cloudland gleams, | 105 |
| On their dizzy way, in serried grades— | |
| Wing on wing, wing on wing— | |
| The mowers, each a step in advance | |
| Of his fellow, time their stroke with a glance | |
| Of swerveless force; | 110 |
| And far through the meadow leads their course— | |
| Swing, swing, swing! | |
| |
