Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . 7 VIII. THE HAT FIELD. When, wliite and wet, the morning-dewClung close on swathe and spray, Our rakes, I know not how, still drewTogether in the hay. And when the sun rode hot and high, As at noon-tide we ate,Though there were prettier girls than I, Tvvas still our hands that met. And when they heaped the latest wain Upon the sun-set lea,I raked for him, and he was fain Still to fork after me. And when my sisters child I tookDown to the flag-fringed weir, The water-lilies from the hrookHe still would land-wards steer. And though apart we labour
Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . 7 VIII. THE HAT FIELD. When, wliite and wet, the morning-dewClung close on swathe and spray, Our rakes, I know not how, still drewTogether in the hay. And when the sun rode hot and high, As at noon-tide we ate,Though there were prettier girls than I, Tvvas still our hands that met. And when they heaped the latest wain Upon the sun-set lea,I raked for him, and he was fain Still to fork after me. And when my sisters child I tookDown to the flag-fringed weir, The water-lilies from the hrookHe still would land-wards steer. And though apart we labour now,And though our place lies wide, Home and afield, I know not how,Our paths come side by s IX. THE REAPERS. Silver in the sunshine, And golden in the shade,The corn stands ripe for shearers gripe, And shearers sickle-blade;The ears that waved at morning, At eve shall low be laid. Onward press the shearers,The bandsters come behind; The sickle clears the waving ears,The hands are quick to bind, For the ripening of the sunshine,And the drying of the wind. Gray at morn the poppies Showed their scarlet dye;With withered leaves, among the sheave At night the poppies lie;For beanty is but earthly, And loosed from earth must die. Humbly grew the wheat-ears In their russet weed,Now ripe and dry in sheaves they lie, To help poor human need;For good from earth when severed, Most serves for food and seed. 9 X. BUILDING THE HAY-RICK. Happy, hot, hay-making time,Heart of the glad summers prime,When even labour seems in tune,For once, with joys of balmy June;When freely flows the farmers beer,And toil shakes hands with lusty cheer,While from crisp and clean-raked swarthOf the meadow to
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