Our oats they are howed and our barley’s reaped,
Our hay is mowed and our hovels heaped,
Harvest Home! Harvest Home!
We’ll merrily roar out Harvest Home!
Harvest Home! Harvest Home!
We’ll ...
with another repetition of the line.[[733]] The men who sang this chorus were still in thrall to an old custom at the barley harvest. On putting up the last sheaf, which is called the craw, or crow sheaf, the man who has it cries out,—
I have it, I have it, I have it!
Another asks,—
What hav’ee, what hav’ee, what hav’ee?