Through vales of grass and meads of flow'rs,
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and show'rs
Of changeful April played
We dropped the seed o'er 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 mid-summer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair
And now with autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest time has come
We pluck away the frosted leaves
And bear the treasure home.
Wher'er 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.