Then having eaten all they could, they prepared themselves, with one accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck of corn, dressed with ribbons gaily, and set it upon the mantelpiece, each man with his horn a-froth; and then they sang a song about it, every one shouting in the chorus louder than harvest thunderstorm. Some were in the middle of one verse, and some at the end of the next one; yet somehow all managed to get together in the mighty roar of the burden. And if any farmer up the country would like to know Exmoor harvest-song as sung in my time and will be sung long after I am garnered home, lo, here I set it down for him, omitting only the dialect, which perchance might puzzle him. EXMOOR HARVEST-SONG 1 The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn! Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon, Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon: 'Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn. (Chorus) The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. 2 The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat! All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head, Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red: 'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet. (Chorus) The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat! Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat, But fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. 3 The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime! All the day it has been rustling, with its bristles brown, Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown! 'Tis the harvest and the barley must abide its time. (Chorus) The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown! Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board! We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down; When all is in the mow-yard, we'll stop, and thank the Lord. 4 The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats! All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white, Waiting for the girding-hook, to be the nags' delight: 'Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted coats. (Chorus) The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats! Here's to the oats with the blackstone on the board! We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes: When all is home to mow-yard, we'll kneel and thank the Lord. 5