Harvest - Steeleye Span

Your hay it is mow’d, and your corn is reap’d

Your barns will be full, and your hovels heap’d

Come, boys, come

And we’ll roar out our Harvest Home

We’ve cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again

Why should the blockhead have one in ten?

One in ten

For prating so long like a book learned sot

Till pudding and dumplin burn to the pot

Burn to the pot

We’ll toss off our ale till we cannot stand

Then Ho for the times of Old England

Old England

Your hay it is mow’d, and your corn is reap’d

Your barns will be full and your hovls heaped

The nck, the neck, the neck

Hard faced dames in hoods make haste

To cram their lapbags with the barley waste

Before the rout the leveret darts

Bawled at by boys in blundering carts

Scorched there in the heat of the sun

The dinner hour their leisure won

Sweet, now the small beer goes

In hardwood bottles, we all knows

Start of the day the church bell’s knell

And fear to hear the gleaning bell

We’ll toil all day in the last of the hay

We’ll scratch our days away

Beside the hedge the baby sleeps

While far the footsore rabble creeps

Dogs are left to mind the farm

But knaves slouch out to steal the grain

Pigs they all rootle there

Fields are full of din and blare

Time passes, as they glean

The hobby-horse whirls round and round

Stumbling now the gleaning’s done

The farmer’s fat hares, slung upon his gun

Gives goodnight, as home they pull

In creaking handcarts bursting full

Stacked well out of mischief’s way

To thrash and dress another day

Wives full of weary pride

With such small riches satisfied

The neck