THE MOW.

A HARVEST HOME SONG.

Tune, Where the bee sucks.

[This favourite song, copied from a chap-book called The Whistling Ploughman, published at the commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of Ariel’s song, in the Tempest.  It is probably taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]

Now our work’s done, thus we feast,

After labour comes our rest;

Joy shall reign in every breast,

And right welcome is each guest:

After harvest merrily,

Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,

After the harvest that heaps up the mow.

Now the plowman he shall plow,

And shall whistle as he go,

Whether it be fair or blow,

For another barley mow,

O’er the furrow merrily:

Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,

After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.

Toil and plenty, toil and ease,

Still the husbandman he sees;

Whether when the winter freeze,

Or in summer’s gentle breeze;

Still he labours merrily,

Merrily, merrily, after the plow,

He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.