Merrily goes the flail,
Flip flap flap, flip flap flap,
Beating the bright yellow corn;
Cheerily singeth

The thrasher who flingeth

The flail, and awaketh

The echoes of morn,

Singing and flinging,

While woodlands are ringing,

And all for the bright yellow corn.

Rapidly goes the mill,

Click clack clack, click clack clack,
All on a cold frosty morn,

While the stout miller

Is counting his siller,
Contented and happy
While grinding his corn:
While the bold miller
Is counting his siller,

And all for the bright yellow corn.

From THE UNION SCHOOL-SONG GARLAND.

THE MILL WHEEL.

ROUND and round it goes,
As fast the water flows;

The dripping, dropping, plashing wheel,
That turns the noisy, dusty mill;

Round and round it goes,

Round and round it goes!

Turning all the day,

It never stops to play,

The dripping, dropping, turning wheel,
That grinds the golden corn for meal;
Turning all the day,

Turning all the day.

Hear the plashing sound,

As still the wheel goes round,

The dripping wheel that turns the mill,

And never thinks of standing still;

Ever turning round,

As the corn is ground.

From THE UNION SCHOOL-SONG GARLAND.

SONG OF THE HAYMAKERS.

THE noontide is hot and our foreheads are brown;
Our palms are all shining and hard;

Right close is our work with the wain and the fork,
And but poor is our daily reward.

But there's joy in the sunshine and mirth in the lark,
That skims whistling away overhead;

Our spirits are light, though our skins may be dark,
And there's peace with our meal of brown bread.
We dwell in the meadows and toil on the sward,
Far away from the city's dull gloom ;

And more jolly are we, though in rags we may be,
Than the pale faces over the loom.

Then a song and a cheer for the bonny green stack,
Climbing up to the sun, wide and high ;

For the pitchers and rakers, and merry haymakers,
And a beautiful midsummer sky.

Come forth, gentle ladies—come forth, dainty sirs,
And lend us your presence awhile,

Your garments will gather no stain from the burs,
And a freckle won't tarnish your smile.

Our carpet's more soft for your delicate feet
Than the pile of your velveted floor,

And the scent of our balm-swath is surely as sweet
As the perfume of Araby's shore.

Come forth, noble masters, come forth to the field,
Where freshness and health may be found;

Where the wind-rows are spread for the butterfly's bed, the clover-bloom falleth around.

Then a song and a cheer, &c.

st,' cries the waggoner loudly and quick,
en comes the hearty 'Gee wo!'

While the cunning old team-horses manage to pick
A sweet mouthful to munch as they go.

The tawny-faced children come round us to play,
And bravely they scatter the heap,

Till the tiniest one, all outspent with the fun,
Is curl'd up with the sheep-dog, asleep.

Old age sitteth down on the haycock's fair crown
At the close of our labouring day,

And wishes his life, like the grass at his feet,

May be pure at its passing away.

Then a song and a cheer, &c.

ELIZA COOK.

ALL AMONG THE BARLEY.

COME out, 'tis now September,
The hunter's moon's begun ;
And through the wheaten stubble
Is heard the frequent gun.

The Autumn is an old friend,
That loves one all he can,
And brings the happy Barley
To glad the heart of man.

The Wheat is like a rich man,
That's sleek and well-to-do;
The Oats are like a pack of girls,
Laughing and dancing too;

The Rye is like a miser,

That's sulky, lean, and small;
But the free and bearded Barley
Is the monarch of them all.

Chorus—All among the Barley,

Who would not be blithe, When the free and happy Barley

Is smiling on the scythe?

A. T.

THE BARLEY-MOWERS' SONG.

BARLEY-MOWERS here we stand, One, two, three, a steady band; True of heart and strong of limb, Ready in our harvest-trim; All a-row with spirits blithe, Now we whet the bended scythe. Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink a-tink!

Side by side now, bending low, Down the swaths of barley go; Stroke by stroke, as true as chime Of the bells, we keep in time: Then we whet the ringing scythe, Standing 'mid the barley lithe. Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink a-tink!

After labour cometh ease;
Sitting now beneath the trees,
Round we send the barley-wine,
Life infusing, clear and fine;
Then refreshed, alert, and blithe,
Rise we all, and whet the scythe.
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink a-tink!

Barley-mowers must be true,
Keeping still the end in view;
One with all, and all with one,
Working on till set of sun;
Bending all with spirits blithe,
Whetting all at once the scythe.

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink a-tink!

Day and night, and night and day, Time, the mower, will not stay, We may hear him in our path By the falling barley-swath; While we sing with spirits blithe, We may hear his ringing scythe. Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink a-tink!

Time, the mower, cuts down all,
High and low, and great and small:
Fear him not, for we will grow
Ready like the field we mow;
Like the bending barley lithe,
Ready for Time's whetted scythe.

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink a-tink!

MARY HOWITT.

HARVEST HOME.

MEN of sinew! hale and hearty,
Brave at scythe and sickle, come,
Come and swell our gleesome party,
Reapers! sturdy reapers, come !
Time for all things, this for leisure;
Time for all things, this for pleasure.
Sing our merry Harvest-Home.

Mothers meek! home-troubles leaving,
Join your husbands' joy and come,
Honour, love, respect receiving,

From the honest-hearted, come !
Nought unmeet for woman's bearing,
Nought unmeet for woman's hearing,
Blots our merry Harvest-Home.
Maidens modest ! fear no roughness,
Fathers, brothers are we; come!
Kind and true, despite our bluffness ;
Maidens modest! come, then, come !
Far away be thoughts of lightness,
With your own unsullied brightness,
Maidens bless our Harvest-Home !

Aged folks! our hamlet's glory,
Dames and grandsires !—all must come ;
Come and tell again the story

Of the days long bygone, come;
Ye who with life's ills have striven,
And to whom now rest is given,
Welcome to our Harvest-Home.