  When the autumn winds are merry, And come piping o’er the lea, Kiss the lassies’ cheeks to cherry, Toss their curls in frolic glee, Then the neighbour children gather At the sound of Robin’s horn, Trooping to the barn together For the husking of the corn. There the floor is swept so trimly, Ready for the pleasant play, There the light falls soft and dimly Down the hills of fragrant hay; There the pumpkins and the squashes, In a circle ranged complete, For the laddies and the lassies, Make for each a royal seat. On our golden stools a-sitting, Each beside a pile of corn, Lightly goes the laughter, flitting, While the rustling husks are torn. And the yellow ears and gleaming Pile we high before us there, Till a wondrous castle, seeming Then, when all is finished, Robin Brings the apples, glowing red, Chestnuts in their satin jackets, Cookies crisp, and gingerbread. And we feast, with song and laughter, And we make the echoes ring, Till each ancient cobwebbed rafter Shakes to hear our revelling. Till the rising moon is jealous, Envying our merry play; Through the window peeps to tell us, “Hence, to bed! away! away!” So, with parting jest and greeting, Troop the neighbour children home, Looking to another meeting When a holiday shall come. City children, you who wonder How the “country bumpkins” live, Know, we would not join you yonder For all joys that you could give. Keep your shops, your smoky weather, Keep your looks of pitying scorn! You can never troop together To the husking of the corn! |
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