HARVEST-HOME SONG. [OUR copy of this song is taken from one in the Roxburgh Collection, where it is called, _The Country Farmer’s vain glory_; _in a new song of Harvest Home_, _sung to a new tune much in request_. _Licensed according to order_. The tune is published in _Popular Music_. A copy of this song, with the music, may be found in D’Urfey’s _Pills to purge Melancholy_. It varies from ours; but D’Urfey is so loose and inaccurate in his texts, that any other version is more likely to be correct. The broadside from which the following is copied was ‘Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Dencon [Deacon], J. Blai[r], and J. Back.’] 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 our harvest home! Harvest home! harvest home! We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home! We’ll merrily roar out our harvest home! We cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again; For why should the vicar have one in ten? One in ten! one in ten! For why should the vicar have one in ten? For why should the vicar have one in ten? For staying while dinner is cold and hot, And pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot; Burnt to pot! burnt to pot! Till pudding and dumpling’s burnt to pot, Burnt to pot! burnt to pot! We’ll drink off the liquor while we can stand, And hey for the honour of old England! Old England! old England! And hey for the honour of old England! Old England! old England! HARVEST-HOME. [FROM an old copy without printer’s name or date.] COME, Roger and Nell, Come, Simpkin and Bell, Each lad with his lass hither come; With singing and dancing, And pleasure advancing, To celebrate harvest-home! _Chorus_. ’Tis Ceres bids play, And keep holiday, To celebrate harvest-home! Harvest-home! Harvest-home! To celebrate harvest-home! Our labour is o’er, Our barns, in full store, Now swell with rich gifts of the land; Let each man then take, For the prong and the rake, His can and his lass in his hand. For Ceres, &c. No courtier can be So happy as we, In innocence, pastime, and mirth; While thus we carouse, With our sweetheart or spouse, And rejoice o’er the fruits of the earth. For Ceres, &c. THE MOW. A HARVEST HOME SONG. Tune, _Where the bee sucks_. [THIS favourite song, copied from a chap-book called _The Whistling Ploughman_, published at the commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of Ariel’s song, in the _Tempest_. It is probably taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]