The Hay-makers

It is sweet, love, to stray,

When the noon-tide is over,

Through the windrows of hay,

And the white-blossomed clover;

Where each lass may partake

In the toil and the pleasure,

Keeping time, with the rake,

To the lark's tuneful measure.

Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,

When the noon-tide is over,

Through the windrows of hay,

And the white-blossomed clover.

There the swains cut their paths

Through the sections assigned them,

Leaving sweet-scented swaths

Swelling gayly behind them.

Tender childhood and age,

Sturdy manhood and beauty,

All with ardor engage

In so pleasing a duty.

Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,

When the noon-tide is over,

Through the windrows of hay,

And the white-blossomed clover.

As the billow of grass

Over the meadow is driven,

By some rose-visaged lass

'Tis divided and riven,

When her swain lends his aid,

And the green hillock rises,

Then the half-willing maid

With a sly kiss surprises.

Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,

When the noon-tide is over,

Through the windrows of hay,

And the white blossomed clover.

See the gay romping elves,

Now the sweet task is over,

All amusing themselves,

On the balm-breathing clover;

There the swain whispers love

To his heart's dearest treasure,

Who affects to reprove,

While her eyes beam with pleasure.

Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,

When the noon-tide is over,

Through the windrows of hay,

And the white-blossomed clover.