The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman

In Dorset Dear

     In Dorset Dear they're making hay
     In just the old West Country way.
     With fork and rake and old-time gear
     They make the hay in Dorset Dear.
     From early morn till twilight grey
     They toss and turn and shake the hay.
     And all the countryside is gay
     With roses on the fallen may,
     For 'tis the hay-time of the year
     In Dorset Dear.

     The loaded waggons wend their way
     Across the pasture-lands, and stay
     Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer;
     And ricks that shall be fashioned here
     Will be the sweetest stuff, they say,
     In Dorset Dear!