Sickles sound;
On the ground
Fast the ripe ears fall;
Every maiden’s bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it—
Joy is over all.
Sickles ring,
Maidens sing
To the sickle’s sound;
Till the moon is beaming,
And the stubble gleaming,
Harvest songs go round.
All are springing,
All are singing
Every lisping thing;
Man and master meat
From one dish they eat;
Each is now a king.
Hans and Michael
Whet the sickle,
Piping merrily.
Now they mow; each maiden,
Soon with sheaves is laden,
Busy as a bee!
Now the blisses,
Now the kisses—
Now the wit doth flow
Till the beer is out;
Then with song and shout,
Hence they go, yo ho!
_Translation of_ C. T. BROOKS. LUDWIG HOLTY, 1748–1776.