Berry-pickers! Berry-pickers!
Rising with the sun,
Think that you are working, don't you?
I just think it fun!
Every brier is black with berries,
Loaded, bending down;
I will race you for a pailful!
Then away to town.
Pretty faces, bonnet-shaded,
Brightly-glowing cheeks,
Crimsoned lips that tell of eating,
Hands with ruddy streaks!
Where have all the children wandered?
"Ho, yo-ho, o-ho!"
There they answer, shouting, laughing,
Through the patch they go.
Hot and weary, richly laden
With delicious spoil,
At the spring we bathe our faces,
Drink and rest from toil.
Who will buy our fresh, ripe berries?
If you haggle--well,
We may change our minds and keep them;
They're too good to sell.