The Mowers' Song

Come, brothers, out, for the morning is splendid;
    Fast from the lowlands the vapors are rolled;
Over the east; with his glories attended,
    Rises the sun, flashing purple and gold.

Now, while he brushes the dew from the clover,
    Lay the dull scythe to the steel-gnawing stone;
Turn with a will, boys, over and over;
    Now the edge wires and the grinding is done.

March to the field with the snath of your weapon
    Laid in your arm like the arm of your lass;
Hum a blithe stave to keep rhythmical step on;
    Now in close sequence dip steel in the grass.

All strike as one, with a symphonant cadence,
    All step at once, with a measured advance;
Bowing together the brawny arm’s silence
    In the slow swing of the shoulders’ expanse.

Sweet on the air is the breath of the clover
    Tossed by the boys to the breeze and the sun;
Sweet the oak shade when the morning is over,
    Where we all drink from the trost-haunted run.

Not a fell drop from the fire-cup of rain
    Taints the pure air, nor the water defiles;
True in the virtue our fathers were true in,
    We will walk worthy to bask in their smiles.