Ere harvest's ripe to reap.
Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind--
Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight;
For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind,
While the hungry little ones garlands bind
Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined,
On whom we poor folk wait.
Merry drops slanting from south and east--
Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain;
For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast.