How sorrowful it is to watch
The noisy reaping machine
Parting the grain from its mother bed,
While it gracefully bent its stately head
As the breeze swept o’er the green.
The binders follow in their train
To bind the golden grain;
And when their hard day’s work is o’er
They merrily dance, as in days of yore,
To the sweet sounding violin.
How glorious the harvest moon
Peeps thro’ the maple leaves.
And beams upon the merry throng
As they sing the beautiful harvest song
In the shade of the lofty trees.
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