Here's a health unto our maister,

The founder of the feast,

And I hope to God wi' all my heart,

His soul in heaven mid rest.

That everything mid prosper

That ever he tiak in hand,

Vor we be all his sarvants,

And all at his command.

These verses were sometimes said in proposing the health of the farmer at a harvest-home supper. Another version of them is given in Hone's Table Book, ii. 334. When they have had a fortunate harvest, and the produce has been carried home without an accident, the following lines are sang at the harvest-home:

Harvest home, harvest home,

Ne'er a load's been overthrown.