Harvest Home by Elliott Carter Lyrics
Come Sons of Summer, by whose toile
We are the Lords of Wine and Oile:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands
We rip up first, then reap our lands
Crown'd with the ears of corne, now come
And, to the Pipe, sing Harvest home
[ Come forth, my Lord, and see the Cart
Drest up with all the Country Art.]
See, here a Maukin, there it is a sheeet
As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
The Horses, Mares and frisking Fillies
(Clad, all, in Linnen, white as Lillies.)
The Harvest Swaines, and Wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd
About the Cart, heare, how the Rout
Of Rurall Younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after
Those with a shout, and these with laughter
Some blesse the Cart; some kisse the sheaves;
Some prank them up with Oaken leaves:
[some crosse the Fill-Horse;] Some with great
Devotion, stroak the home-borne wheat:
While other Rusticks, lesse attent
To prayers, than to Merryment
Run after with their breeches rent
Well, on, brave boyes, to your [Lords] Hearth
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth
Ye shall see first the large and cheefe
Foundation of your Feast, Fat Beefe:
With Upper Stories, Mutton, Veale
And Bacon, (which makes full the meale)
[With sev'rall dishes standing by
As here a Custard, there a Pie
As here all tempting Frumentie
And for to make the merry cheere
If smirking Wine be wanting here
There's that, which drowns all care, stout beere;
Which freely drink to your Lord's health
Then to the Plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your Flailes, your Fanes, your Fatts;]
Then to Maids with Wheaten Hats;
To the rough Sickle, and crookt Sythe
Drink frollick boyes, till all be blythe
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat
Be mindful, that the lab'ring Neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besided, ye must revoke
The patient Oxe unto the Yoke
And all goe back unto the Plough
And Harrow, (though the'r hang'd up now.)
[And, you must know, your Lords word's true
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.]
And that this pleasure is like raine
Not sent ye for to drowne your paine
But for to make it spring againe
We are the Lords of Wine and Oile:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands
We rip up first, then reap our lands
Crown'd with the ears of corne, now come
And, to the Pipe, sing Harvest home
[ Come forth, my Lord, and see the Cart
Drest up with all the Country Art.]
See, here a Maukin, there it is a sheeet
As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
The Horses, Mares and frisking Fillies
(Clad, all, in Linnen, white as Lillies.)
The Harvest Swaines, and Wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd
About the Cart, heare, how the Rout
Of Rurall Younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after
Those with a shout, and these with laughter
Some blesse the Cart; some kisse the sheaves;
Some prank them up with Oaken leaves:
[some crosse the Fill-Horse;] Some with great
Devotion, stroak the home-borne wheat:
While other Rusticks, lesse attent
To prayers, than to Merryment
Run after with their breeches rent
Well, on, brave boyes, to your [Lords] Hearth
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth
Ye shall see first the large and cheefe
Foundation of your Feast, Fat Beefe:
With Upper Stories, Mutton, Veale
And Bacon, (which makes full the meale)
[With sev'rall dishes standing by
As here a Custard, there a Pie
As here all tempting Frumentie
And for to make the merry cheere
If smirking Wine be wanting here
There's that, which drowns all care, stout beere;
Which freely drink to your Lord's health
Then to the Plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your Flailes, your Fanes, your Fatts;]
Then to Maids with Wheaten Hats;
To the rough Sickle, and crookt Sythe
Drink frollick boyes, till all be blythe
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat
Be mindful, that the lab'ring Neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besided, ye must revoke
The patient Oxe unto the Yoke
And all goe back unto the Plough
And Harrow, (though the'r hang'd up now.)
[And, you must know, your Lords word's true
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.]
And that this pleasure is like raine
Not sent ye for to drowne your paine
But for to make it spring againe