An’ mid noo harm o’ vire or storm
Beval the farmer or his corn;
An’ ev’ry zack o’ zeed gi’e back
A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.
An’ mid his Meäker bless his store,
His wife an’ all that she’ve a-bore,
An’ keep all evil out o’ door.
Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Mid nothèn ill betide the mill,
As day by day the miller’s wheel
Do dreve his clacks, an’ heist his zacks,
An’ vill his bins wi’ show’rèn meal:
Mid’s water never overflow
His dousty mill, nor zink too low,
Vrom now till wheat ageän do grow,
An’ we’ve another Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Drough cisterns wet an’ malt-kil’s het,
Mid barley paÿ the malter’s païns;
An’ mid noo hurt bevall the wort,
A-bweilèn vrom the brewer’s graïns.
Mid all his beer keep out o’ harm
Vrom bu’sted hoop or thunder storm,
That we mid have a mug to warm
Our merry hearts nex’ Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Mid luck an’ jaÿ the beäker pay,
As he do hear his vier roar,
Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
A-reekèn vrom the oven door.
F
