Four sharp scythes sweeping-in concert keeping
The rich-robed meadow's broad bosom o'er,
Four strong men mowing, with bright health glowing
A long green swath spread each man before;
With sinews springing-my keen blade swinging,-
I strode-the fourth man in that blithe band;
As stalk of corn that summer morn,
The scythe felt light in my stalwart hand.

Oh, King of Glory! How changed my story,
Since in youth's noontide-long, long ago,
I mowed that meadow-no cloudy shadow
Between my brow and the hot sun's glow;
Fair girls raking the hay-and making
The fields resound with their laugh and glee,
Their voices ringing-than cuckoo's singing,
Made music sweeter by far to me.

Bees hovered over the honied clover,
Then nestward hied upon wings of light;
No use in trying to trace them flying-
One brief low hum and they're out of sight,
On downy thistle bright insects nestle,
Or flutter skyward on painted wings,
At times alighting on flowers inviting-
'Twas pleasant watching the airy things.

From hazel bushes came songs of thrushes
And blackbirds-sweeter than harper's lay;
While high in ether-with sun-tipped feather-
The skylark warbled his anthem gay;
With throats distended, sweet linnets blended
A thousand notes in one glorious chime,
Oh, King Eternal, 'twas life supernal
In beauteous Erin, that pleasant time.