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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507432" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come, sons of summer, by whose toil <br>We are the lords of wine and oil; <br>By whose tough labours, and rough hands, <br>We rip up first, then reap our lands. <br>Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come, <br>And to the pipe sing Harvest Home. <br>Come forth, my lord, and see the cart <br>Dress'd up with all the country art. <br>See, here a malkin, there a sheet, <br>As spotless pure, as it is sweet; <br>The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, <br>(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.) <br>The harvest swains and wenches bound <br>For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd. <br>About the cart, hear, how the rout <br>Of rural younglings raise the shout; <br>Pressing before, some coming after, <br>Those with a shout, and these with laughter. <br>Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves; <br>Some prank them up with oaken leaves;<br>Some cross the fill-horse; some with great <br>Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat; <br>While other rustics, less attent <br>To prayers than to merriment, <br>Run after with their breeches rent. <br>Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, <br>Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, <br>Ye shall see first the large and chief <br>Foundation of your feast, fat beef, <br>With upper stories, mutton, veal, <br>And bacon, (which makes full the meal) <br>With sev'ral dishes standing by, <br>As here a custard, there a pie, <br>And here all tempting frumenty. <br>And for to make the merry cheer, <br>If smirking wine be wanting here, <br>There's that which drowns all care, stout beer, <br>Which freely drink to your lord's health, <br>Then to the plough, (the common-wealth) <br>Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats; <br>Then to the maids with wheaten hats; <br>To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe, <br>Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe. <br>Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat, <br>Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat <br>(As you) may have their fill of meat <br>And know, besides, ye must revoke <br>The patient ox unto the yoke, <br>And all go back unto the plough <br>And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.) <br>And, you must know, your lord's word's true, <br>Feed him ye must, whose food fills you. <br>And that this pleasure is like rain, <br>Not sent ye for to drown your pain, <br>But for to make it spring again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Herrick">Robert Herrick</a><div class=q>
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Come, sons of summer, by whose toil 
We are the lords of wine and oil; 
By whose tough labours, and rough hands, 
We rip up first, then reap our lands. 
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come..."></div>
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