Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MOWERS by MYRON B. BENTON

First Line: THE SUNBURNT MOWERS ARE IN THE SWATH
Last Line: SWING, SWING, SWING!
Subject(s): HARVEST; MOWING & MOWERS; LAWN MOWERS;
THE sunburnt mowers are in the swath --
Swing, swing, swing!
The towering lilies loath
Tremble and totter and fall;
The meadow-rue
Dashes its tassels of golden dew;
And the keen blade sweeps o'er all --
Swing, swing, swing!
The flowers, the berries, the feathered grass,
Are thrown in a smothered mass;
Hastens away the butterfly;
With half their burden the brown bees hie;
And the meadow-lark shrieks distrest,
And leaves the poor younglings all in the nest.
The daisies clasp and fall;
And totters the Jacob's-ladder tall.
Weaving and winding and curving lithe,
O'er plumy hillocks -- through dewy hollows,
His subtle scythe
The nodding mower follows --
Swing, swing, swing!
Anon, the chiming whetstones ring --
Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling!
And the mower now
Pauses and wipes his beaded brow.
A moment he scans the fleckless sky;
A moment, the fish-hawk soaring high;
And watches the swallows dip and dive
Anear and far.
They whisk and glimmer, and chatter and
strive;
What do they gossip together?
Cunning fellows they are,
Wise prophets to him!
"Higher or lower they circle and skim --
Fair or foul to-morrow's hay-weather!"
Tallest primroses, or loftiest daisies,
Not a steel-blue feather
Of slim wing grazes:
"Fear not! fear not!" cry the swallows.
Each mower tightens his snath-ring's wedge,
And his finger daintily follows
The long blade's tickle-edge;
Softly the whetstone's last touches ring --
Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling!
Like a leaf-muffled bird in the woodland nigh,
Faintly the fading echoes reply --
Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling!
"Perchance the swallows, that flit in their glee,
Of to-morrow's hay-weather know little as we!"
Says Farmer Russet. "Be it hidden in shower
Or sunshine, to-morrow we do not own --
To-day is ours alone! --
Not a twinkle we'll waste of the golden hour.
Grasp tightly the nibs -- give heel and give
toe! --
Lay a goodly swath, shaved smooth and low!
Prime is the day --
Swing, swing, swing!"
Farmer Russet is aged and gray --
Gray as the frost, but fresh as the spring,
Straight is he
As the green fir-tree;
And with heart most blithe, and sinews lithe,
He leads the row with his merry scythe.
"Come, boys! strike up the old song
While we circle around --
The song we always in haytime sing --
And let the woods ring,
And the echoes prolong
The merry sound!"
SONG.
July is just in the nick of time!
(Hay-weather, hay-weather;)
The midsummer month is the golden prime
For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme; --
(Swing all together!)
July is just in the nick of time!
Chorus
O, we'll make our hay while the good sun
shines --
We'll waste not a golden minute!
No shadow of storm the blue arch lines;
We'll waste not a minute -- not a minute!
For the west-wind is fair;
O, the hay-day is rare! --
The sky is without a brown cloud in it!
June is too early for richest hay;
(Fair weather, fair weather;)
The corn stretches taller the livelong day;
But grass is ever too sappy to lay; --
(Clip all together!)
June is too early for richest hay.
August's a month that too far goes by;
(Late weather, late weather;)
Grasshoppers are chipper and kick too high!
And grass that's standing is fodder scorched dry; --
(Pull all together!)
August's a month that too far goes by.
July is just in the nick of time!
(Best weather, best weather;)
The midsummer month is the golden prime
For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme;
(Strike all together!)
July is just in the nick of time!
-----
Still hiss the scythes!
Shudder the grasses' defenceless blades --
The lily-throng writhes;
And, as a phalanx of wild geese streams,
Where the shore of April's cloudland gleams,
On their dizzy way, in serried grades --
Wing on wing, wing on wing --
The mowers, each a step in advance
Of his fellow, time their stroke with a glance
Of swerveless force;
And far through the meadow leads their course --
Swing, swing, swing!


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