The latest load from the field is come,
"Hip! Hip! Hip! for the Harvest Home!"
The guests they throng to the feast in swarms,
More men than manners, more chairs than forms;
And 'twould puzzle a lawyer here to point,
And prove that the times are _out of joint_.
I love fat _fowls_ in a bill of _fare_,
Yet this for ever I will declare,
That the dish, however it may be scorned,
For a harvest supper is beef that's corned.
I love a dame of the good old sort,
The piano not her only forte,
Her sons, who something know beside
To break a pointer, drink, and ride;
And daughters, who return from school,
To feed the pullets, not dance _la poule_.
There are some that gather, who do not grow,
And some that reap, who are but _sow-sow_,
But the honest farmer, blunt and plain,
Who has never learned to drink champagne
(Like some, or else I'm much mistaken,
Who pinch the poor to save their bacon),
May plenty crown his peaceful dome,
And "Hip! Hip! Hip! for his Harvest Home."