A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick

28. THE HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME: TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MILDMAY, EARL OF WESTMORLAND

     Come, Sons of Summer, by whose toil
     We are the lords of wine and oil:
     By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
     We rip up first, then reap our lands.
     Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
     And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.

     Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
     Drest up with all the country art.
     See, here a maukin, there a sheet,
     As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
     The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
     Clad, all, in linen white as lilies.
     The harvest swains and wenches bound
     For joy, to see the Hock-Cart crown'd.
     About the cart, hear, how the rout
     Of rural younglings raise the shout;
     Pressing before, some coming after,
     Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
     Some bless the cart; some kiss the sheaves;
     Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
     Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
     Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat:
     While other rustics, less attent
     To prayers, than to merriment,
     Run after with their breeches rent.
     —Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
     Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
     Ye shall see first the large and chief
     Foundation of your feast, fat beef;
     With upper stories, mutton, veal
     And bacon, which makes full the meal,
     With sev'ral dishes standing by,
     As here a custard, there a pie,
     And here, all tempting frumenty.
     And for to make the merry cheer,
     If smirking wine be wanting here,
     There's that which drowns all care, stout beer:
     Which freely drink to your lord's health
     Then to the plough, the common-wealth;
     Next to your flails, your fanes, your vats;
     Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
     To the rough sickle, and crookt scythe,—
     Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
     Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
     Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat,
     As you, may have their fill of meat.
     And know, besides, ye must revoke
     The patient ox unto the yoke,
     And all go back unto the plough
     And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
     And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
     Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
     And that this pleasure is like rain,
     Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
     But for to make it spring again.