What cheerful sounds salute our ears

What cheerful sounds salute our ears, And echo o'er the lawn! Behold! the loaded car appears, In joyful triumph drawn. The nymphs and swains, a jovial band, Still shouting as they come, With rustic instruments in hand, Proclaim the harvest-home.

The golden sheaves, pil'd up on high, Within the barn are stor'd; The careful hind, with secret joy Exulting, views his hoard. His labour's past, he counts his gains; And, freed from anxious care, His casks are broach'd; the sun-burnt swains His rural plenty share.

In dance and song the night is spent: All ply the flowing bowl; And jests and harmless merriment Expand the artless soul. Young Colin whispers Rosalind, Who still reap'd by his side; And plights his troth, if she prove kind, To take her for his bride.

For joys like these, through circling years, Their toilsome task they tend: The hind successive labours bears, In prospect of the end; In spring, or winter, sows his seed, Manures or tills the soil: In summer, various cares succed; But harvest crowns his toil.