The Corn-Song

Heap high the farmers wintry hoard!     Heap high the golden corn!     No richer gift has Autumn poured     From out her lavish horn!     Let other lands, exulting, glean     The apple from the pine,     The orange from its glossy green,     The cluster from the vine;     We better love the hardy gift     Our rugged vales bestow,     To cheer us when the storm shall drift     Our harvest-fields with snow.     Through vales of grass and meads of flowers     Our ploughs their furrows made,     While on the hills the sun and showers     Of changeful April played.     We dropped the seed oer hill and plain     Beneath the sun of May,     And frightened from our sprouting grain     The robber crows away.     All through the long, bright days of June     Its leaves grew green and fair,     And waved in hot midsummers noon     Its soft and yellow hair.     And now, with autumns moonlit eves,     Its harvest-time has come,     We pluck away the frosted leaves,     And bear the treasure home.     There, richer than the fabled gift     Apollo showered of old,     Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,     And knead its meal of gold.     Let vapid idlers loll in silk     Around their costly board;     Give us the bowl of samp and milk,     By homespun beauty poured!     Whereer the wide old kitchen hearth     Sends up its smoky curls,     Who will not thank the kindly earth     And bless our farmer girls?     Then shame on all the proud and vain,     Whose folly laughs to scorn     The blessing of our hardy grain,     Our wealth of golden corn!     Let earth withhold her goodly root,     Let mildew blight the rye,     Give to the worm the orchards fruit,     The wheat-field to the fly:     But let the good old crop adorn     The hills our fathers trod;     Still let us, for His golden corn,     Send up our thanks to God!