Harvest Song
From the German by Charles Timothy Brooks
SICKLES sound;
On the ground
Fast the ripe ears fall;
Every maiden’s bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it:
Joy is over all.
Sickles ring,
Maidens sing
To the sickle’s sound;
Till the moon is beaming,
And the stubble gleaming,
Harvest songs go round.
All are springing,
All are singing,
Every lisping thing,
Man and master meet,
From one dish they eat;
Each is now a king.
Hans and Michael
Whet the sickle,
Piping merrily.
Now they mow; each maiden
Soon with sheaves is laden,
Busy as a bee.
Now the blisses,
And the kisses!
Now the wit doth flow
Till the beer is out;
Then, with song and shout,
Home they go, yo ho!