XVII.

Some here, some there, aghast,

In mad confusion haste

The dire mishap to rid, and danger 'scape;

The waggon straight they raise

(And sing it to their praise),

The horses caught, and raised the fallen heaps,

They all again their work begin

(The storm veered off afar), though drenched to very skin.

XVIII.

Soon comes the welcome hour,

When, housed in tent or bower,.

They share the Hockey Feast and supper spread;

The workmen, with their wives

And children,-each one strives

The merry feast to greet, when grace is said;

With warm and thankful hearts they praise The harvest's Lord, and songs of gratitude upraise.

XIX.

Gone by that hour of sin,

We late were living in,

When labouring hinds assembled stained the hour

Of harvest feast prepared,

And each with other shared

The goods th' Almighty sent, in mutual roar,

And seemed to spurn the gracious Hand,

Outstretched in love to crown with fruits our favoured

land.

XX.

Not now the drunken scene

Of days which once have been;

Not now in sinful mirth the festal time

Spent o'er the foaming cup;

When erst the uproarious group,

With heated brain, to drunkenness the crime

Of swearing added, hasting to inflame.

His wrath who will avenge the honour of His Name.

XXI.

We hail the contrast wide,

As now we see beside

His labourers at feast the master, shorn

Of usual visage stern

(When he his men would learn

His wishes to obey, and wages duly earn);

He throws aside the master's part,

And shakes their dirty hands, and wins their honest

heart.

XXII.

The harvest's jovial feast

Is honoured by the priest,

Who sanction ne'er withholds, in sullen mood,

If innocence prevail;

For why should he curtail

The joy of harvest, and its mirth corrode?

He greets his working flock, commends

Their late industrious toil when harvest labour ends.

XXIII.

'Tis now the season fair

When multitudes repair

To gardens, grounds where hops most graceful

twine

In ringlets round the pole,

Now fallen, for the shoal

Of cruel hands to strip the tender vine;

For them their mutual toil is sport,

As they where clusters grow in willing troops resort.

XXIV.

See, too, how they are drest,

In motley garb and vest;

Each, like the rainbow, varied colour boasts;