Now Lammas comes in,
Our harvest begin,
We have done our endeavours to get the corn in;
We reap and we mow
And we stoutly blow
And cut down the corn
That did sweetly grow.
The poor old man
That can hardly stand,
Gets up in the morning, and do all he can,
Gets up, &c.
I hope God will reward
Such old harvest man.
But the man who is lazy
And will not come on,
He slights his good master
And likewise his men;
We’ll pay him his wages
And send him gone,
For why should we keep
Such a lazy drone.
Now harvest is over
We’ll make a great noise,
Our master, he says,
You are welcome, brave boys;
We’ll broach the old beer,
And we’ll knock along,
And now we will sing an old harvest song.
I shall be happy if this will afford the readers of the Every-Day Book any information concerning the harvest customs of this county. I am, Sir, &c.
G. H. I.
A valuable correspondent transmits a particular account of his country custom, which will be read with pleasure.
Devon.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.