SONG OF THE CANADIAN CRADLER.

With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,

In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;

I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,

And there will I manfully cut my way.

Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;

I bring down the waving grain quite low.

Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,

But cheerful on, and still on I go.

I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,

The toil and care will be well repaid;

For this golden store drives want from my door,

And the surplus is farmers’ profit made.

Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race

Will tell on the field ere night come in;

And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,

Until a new day with its toil begin.

O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,

The shocks in good order standing round,

And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,

Are now trotting briskly over the ground.

Then hasten the day when our grain and hay

Well secured beneath our good barn dome —

Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts

In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.