Yon lie the fields all golden with grain,
(Oh, come, ye Harvesters, reap!)
The dead leaves are falling with autumn's brown stain.
(Oh, come, ye Harvesters, reap!)
For soon sinks the sun to his bed in the west,
And cawing the crows fly each one to his nest;
The grain soon will wither, so harvest your best.
(Oh, come, ye Harvesters, reap!)
Swift sweep the scythes o'er the mellowing ears,
(Reap on, ye Harvesters, reap!)
And soft falls the grain like a fond mother's tears.
(Reap on, ye Harvesters, reap!)
The sun sinketh down, and the day's work is done,
And slow go the harvesters home one by one.
Night now is at hand, but the harvest's begun.
(Reap on, ye Harvesters, reap!)
