OFF TO THE CORN-FIELDS.

OH, come now with us to the corn-fields so gay,
Where the grain nods its rich golden crest,
And we'll pluck the bright flowers, and merrily play,
Till the sun slowly sinks in the West.

Oh come, then, and list to the reapers' glad song,
To the birds trilling lays in the trees,

To the clear babbling brook as it hurries along,
Singing sweet with the soft southern breeze.

Come, let us be blithe while we have the glad sun,
And as through lanes and meadows we roam;

Then at eve, when the reapers their labours have done,
We will join in their glad "Harvest Home.”