These lines were sung over and over again, getting louder at the critical moments. If the drinker’s effort was crowned with success the fourth line was changed to— The liquor’s drinked up, and the bowl is turned over, while ill success was greeted by— The liquor’s drinked up, and the bowl _ain’t_ turned over. Another Sussex custom practised not many years ago, and perhaps still, at harvest-home suppers consisted in a harvester sticking a lighted candle in a glass of beer and drinking the beer while he held the candle in position with his nose. The company meantime sing a song, of which the chorus runs— Your nose’s alight, your nose’s alight, Your hair’s alight, your hair’s alight, Your hair’s alight, afire. {259} Frequently the greasy candle would slip from between the nose and the rim of the glass, really bringing about a conflagration of hair or eyebrows. In Scotland a dish always to be met with at harvest home, or _Kirn_-suppers, as they are called, is composed of porridge, strong ale and whisky. Had such dish as this been found at Sabine harvest-homes, well might Horace have exclaimed, “_O dura messorum ilia!_” Much the same course of feasting, strong-ale drinking, and singing is observed as at the English festival— —the frothing bickers,[58] soon as filled, Are drained, and to the gauntrees[59] oft return. [58] The beakers. [59] The frame supporting the barrel. Such were some of the principal ceremonies connected with the harvest-home. It is to be regretted that such observances are now comparatively rare. The kindly association of master and man at these and such-like gatherings, did much to keep alive a mutual spirit of good will, and to grease the wheels of toil, and it is to be feared that such feelings when once lost cannot easily be recalled. Bloomfield well describes this peculiarity of former times, which to that extent, at any rate, may be called the “good old days”:— Here, once a year, distinction lowers its crest, The master, servant, and the merry guest, Are equal all; and round the happy ring, The reaper’s eyes exulting glances fling; And, warmed with gratitude, he quits his place, With sun-burnt hands, and ale-enlivened face, Refills the jug his honored host to tend, To serve at once the master and the friend; Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, His nuts, his conversation, and his Ale.