SCYTHE SONG.

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,

What is the word methinks ye know,

Endless over-word that the Scythe

Sings to the blades of the grass below?

Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,

Something, still, they say as they pass;

What is the word that, over and over,

Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,

Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;

Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,

Hush, they sing to the clover deep!

Hush —‘ tis the lullaby Time is singing —

Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,

Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging

Over the clover, over the grass!