THE frost will bite us soon; His tooth is on the leaves: Beneath the golden moon We bear the golden sheaves: We care not for the winter's spite, We keep our Harvest-home to-night. Hurrah for the English yeoman! Fill full, fill the cup! Hurrah! he yields to no man! Drink deep; drink it up! The pleasure of a king Is tasteless to the mirth Of peasants when they bring The harvest of the earth. With pipe and tabor hither roam All ye who love our Harvest-home. The thresher with his flail, The shepherd with his crook, The milkmaid with her pail, The reaper with his hook -- To-night the dullest blooded clods Are kings and queens, are demigods. Hurrah for the English yeoman! Fill full; fill the cup! Hurrah! he yields to no man! Drink deep; drink it up! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE SHADOWS: 2 by DAVID GRAY (1838-1861) HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?' by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE INDIAN SERENADE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY WYATT BEING IN PRISON, TO BRIAN by THOMAS WYATT INVULNERABLE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET SONNETS OF SEVEN CITIES: PITTSBURGH by BERTON BRALEY THE PASSING OF WOODROW WILSON, PROPHET OF PEACE by VINCENT GODFREY BURNS |