End of Harvest

Description

They’re in the corner of the field,

The last field they shall have to shear,

They’ve left and tied one bunch, ‘the hare,’

Called in harvest language here.

So I shall leave my books and toys,

My Nankin blues and other pets,

For still to pass on pleasantly

One must pay dame fashion’s debts.

To give the prize, the silver coin,

To him who hits the mark, or she,

I hope indeed it may be Jane,

Who makes the sickle rightly flee,

To cut the bunch, to kill ‘the hare,’

The last grain cut of all the year:

But no, it is douce Donald Bain,

So rarely fate accords a cheer!



Already the wide kitchen blooms

With wreaths of evergreens and flowers,

The solid roasts are almost done,

To try their gathered festive powers.

All disappear till evensong,

And then we see the fiddle-case,

With gay escort of twos and threes,

Girls and their lovers drest with grace.

The hour arrives, the ample board

Is girt by young and old alike,

Anon it disappears, and then

Twenty pairs of hands they strike,

The fiddler mounts, the dance begins,

Now Jane could win the prize, I think,

Scotch reel, mazurka, quadrille, waltz,

She make’s old Fergie’s eyelids wink.

The Drennens too, good sonsy pair,

Passed their silver wedding day,




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