That the proud Ark, etc.
The Union Harvesting.
Air—Old Oaken Bucket.
Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden,
And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain,
And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden,
Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain;
But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer,
Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red,
And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer,