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Nothing Puritanical

about Canadian

Harvest Thanksgiving...

Hymns for Harvest Home

Gun-tottin’ Yankee Puritans had their sights set on wild Turkeys and Churchmen!

Harvest Hymns

Tractors hither, tractors thither

Tractors hither, tractors thither,

Combines blocking ev’ry lane,

Clouds of chaff are blowing across us,

‘tis the Harvest time again:

In the fields the farmer labours,

On his massive reaping throne,

Air-conditioned, piped-in music,

In a world all of his own.

Clouds of dust envelop houses,

Getting into every crack,

Engines throb at early hour,

With exhaust that’s deep and black:

Late into the night they labour,

Brilliant lights that see ahead,

Shining into all our windows,

How we wish that they were dead.

When the reaping-time is over,

And the fields lie quiet once more,

Scattered o’er their barren pasture

Lie great bales that conjure awe:

Like the toys of some giant baby,

Or a slice of seaside rock,

Massive rounds of straw enshrouded

In a shiny plastic sock.

Gathered in is all the barley,

Rape is pillaged, hay is staked,

Ears of wheat are threshed and golden,

Silage in the pits is stacked:

So the farmer trudges homeward,

Back to meat and home-brewed ale,

And the silence now returneth,

To the rural hill and dale.