Down the still pathway of the dying woods.
Now, round the mighty piles of corn they sit,
The aged ones, the young men, and the lads,
With here and there a son of Afric’s clime,
With eye that rolls in undiminished joy,
And mouth that ready waits to swell the laugh,
Or join the merry huskers’ drinking song.
And thus the labor of a week is done,
While wives and daughters, ’neath the farmer’s roof,
Spread out the festive board with viands rich,