Harvest-home.
Who has not seen the cheerful harvest-home,
Enliv’ning the scorch’d field, and greeting gay
The slow decline of Autumn. All around
The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,
Glow, golden lustre; and the trembling stem
Of the slim oat, or azure corn-flow’r,
Waves on hedge-rows shady. From the hill
The day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,
And lightly passes, whisp’ring the soft sounds
Which moan the death of Summer. Glowing scene!
Nature’s long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,
In her proud progeny, she smiling marks
Their graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!
Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sons
Of rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—ye
Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,
Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,
Or on the side-long hill, or in the glen,
Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet, shows
The neighbourhood of peace ye still are found,
A merry and an artless throng, whose souls
Beam thro’ untutor’d glances. When the dawn
Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew
Silvers the out-stretch’d landscape, labour’s sons
Rise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,
From sweet and soothing rest; for fev’rish dreams
Visit not lowly pallets! All the day
They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—
But toil without repining! The blithe song
Joining the woodland melodies afar,
Fling its rude cadence in fantastic sport
On Echo’s airy wing! the pond’rous load
Follows the weary team: the narrow lane
Bears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter’d corn,
Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn
Purloin’d from the broad waggon.
To the brook
That ripples, shallow, down the valley’s slope,
The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—
The flocks along the heath are dimly seen
By the faint torch of ev’ning, whose red eye
Closes in tearful silence. Now the air
Is rich in fragrance! fragrance exquisite!
Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash’d,
And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,
Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All around
The thin mist rises, and the busy tones
Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,
Break the short pause of nature. From the plain
The rustic throngs come cheerly, their loud din
Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,
Happy! more happy than the lords ye serve!—
How lustily your sons endure the hour
Of wintry desolation; and how fair
Your blooming daughters greet the op’ning dawn
Of love-inspiring spring!
Hail! harvest-home!
To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,
By instinct taught to warble! Instinct pure,
Sacred, and grateful, to that pow’r ador’d,
Which warms the sensate being, and reveals
The soul, self-evident, beyond the dreams
Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!
Where the rich earth presents her golden treasures;
Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart
Delights unspeakable! Where seas and skies,
And hills and vallies, colours, odours, dews,
Diversify the work of nature’s God!
Mrs. Robinson.
It was formerly the custom in the parish of Longforgan, in the county of Perth North Britain, to give what was called a maiden feast. “Upon the finishing of the harvest the last handful of corn reaped in the field was called the maiden. This was generally contrived to fall into the hands of one of the finest girls in the field, and was dressed up with ribands, and brought home in triumph with the music of fiddles or bagpipes. A good dinner was given to the whole band, and the evening spent in joviality and dancing, while the fortunate lass who took the maiden was the queen of the feast; after which this handful of corn was dressed out generally in the form of a cross, and hung up with the date of the year, in some conspicuous part of the house. This custom is now entirely done away, and in its room each shearer is given sixpence and a loaf of bread. However, some farmers, when all their corns are brought in, give their servants a dinner and a jovial evening, by way of harvest-home.”[323]
The festival of the in-gathering in Scotland, is poetically described by the elegant author of the “British Georgics.”
The Kirn.
Harvest Home.
The fields are swept, a tranquil silence reigns,
And pause of rural labour, far and near.
Deep is the morning’s hush; from grange to grange
Responsive cock-crows, in the distance heard,
Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear;
And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,
Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.
Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close,
When to the Kirn the neighbours, old and young,
Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.
The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,
Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brand
His sluice the miller shuts; and from the barn
The threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.
Simply adorned, with ribands, blue and pink,
Bound round their braided hair, the lasses trip
To grace the feast, which now is smoking ranged
On tables of all shape, and size, and height,
Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guests
A seemly joyous show, all loaded well:
But chief, at the board-head, the haggis round
Attracts all eyes, and even the goodman’s grace
Prunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,
The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;
While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,
Her gown of silken woof, all figured thick
With roses white, far larger than the life,
On azure ground,—her grannam’s wedding garb,
Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.
Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,
Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,
Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread bare.