Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor by R. D. Blackmore (list of e readers TXT) 📖

accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck of corn, dressed with ribbons gaily, and set it upon the mantelpiece, each man with his horn a-froth; and then they sang a song about it, every one shouting in the chorus louder than harvest thunderstorm. Some were in the middle of one verse, and some at the end of the next one; yet somehow all managed to get together in the mighty roar of the burden. And if any farmer up the country would like to know Exmoor harvest-song as sung in my time and will be sung long after I am garnered home, lo, here I set it down for him, omitting only the dialect, which perchance might puzzle him. EXMOOR HARVEST-SONG 1 The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn! Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon, Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon: 'Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn. (Chorus) The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. 2 The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat! All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head, Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red: 'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet. (Chorus) The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat! Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat, But fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. 3 The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime! All the day it has been rustling, with its bristles brown, Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown! 'Tis the harvest and the barley must abide its time. (Chorus) The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown! Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board! We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down; When all is in the mow-yard, we'll stop, and thank the Lord. 4 The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats! All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white, Waiting for the girding-hook, to be the nags' delight: 'Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted coats. (Chorus) The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats! Here's to the oats with the blackstone on the board! We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes: When all is home to mow-yard, we'll kneel and thank the Lord. 5 The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn! Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the moon, We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born. (Chorus) The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! Thanks for the corn, with our bread upon the board! So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the morn, With our hands to heaven, and our knees unto the Lord.

Now we sang this song very well the first time, having the parish choir to lead us, and the clarionet, and the parson to give us the time with his cup; and we sang it again the second time, not so but what you might praise it (if you had been with us all the evening), although the parson was gone then, and the clerk not fit to compare with him in the matter of keeping time. But when that song was in its third singing, I defy any man (however sober) to have made out one verse from the other, or even the burden from the verses, inasmuch as every man present, ay, and woman too, sang as became convenient to them, in utterance both of words and tune.

And in truth, there was much excuse for them; because it was a noble harvest, fit to thank the Lord for, without His thinking us hypocrites. For we had more land in wheat, that year, than ever we had before, and twice the crop to the acre; and I could not help now and then remembering, in the midst of the merriment, how my father in the churchyard yonder would have gloried to behold it. And my mother, who had left us now, happening to return just then, being called to have her health drunk (for the twentieth time at least), I knew by the sadness in her eyes that she was thinking just as I was. Presently, therefore, I slipped away from the noise, and mirth, and smoking (although of that last there was not much, except from Farmer Nicholas), and crossing the courtyard in the moonlight, I went, just to cool myself, as far as my father's tombstone.