C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Harvest Song

Translation of Charles Timothy Brooks

SICKLES sound;

On the ground

Fast the ripe ears fall;

Every maiden’s bonnet

Has blue blossoms on it:

Joy is over all.

Sickles ring,

Maidens sing

To the sickle’s sound;

Till the moon is beaming,

And the stubble gleaming,

Harvest songs go round.

All are springing,

All are singing,

Every lisping thing.

Man and master meet,

From one dish they eat;

Each is now a king.

Hans and Michael

Whet the sickle,

Piping merrily.

Now they mow; each maiden

Soon with sheaves is laden,

Busy as a bee.

Now the blisses,

And the kisses!

Now the wit doth flow

Till the beer is out;

Then, with song and shout,

Home they go, yo ho!