The Reaper'S Child

If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass, Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find, Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.

While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping; Not the basket that holds the provision is less By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper, Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries, Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear; She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling, And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter, You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee; So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee.