Grey-bearded Day nods drowsily,
Cauld hazy cluds hang ower the plain,
And Nature looks wi' pensive ee
On rich ripe fields o' gowden grain;
A' droukit heavy louting low,
Like mourners shedding tears o' woe.

The craws in conclave crowd the dyke,
The sparrows cluster round the barn,
Aneath the cart-shed cowers the tyke,
Ahint the stooks the poultry dern;
Nor leaf, nor stem, nor bough is stirr'd,
Nor sound is heard o' beast or bird.

Thick vapours gather ower the glens,
The shaggy hills are veil'd in grey,
The sheep are gather'd in their pens,
Nae shepherd climbs thae heights to-day;
And browsing 'neath the drowsy trees,
Are cattle clover'd to the knees.

Doun fa's the thick an' grizly weet,
Plout, ploutin', on our auld trough-stane,
The bairnies wi' their raw red feet,
Dance through the drumlie dubs o' rain;
While loaded leaf, an' steekit flower,
Keep joukin' frae the peltin' shower.

Doun pours the rain, doun fa's the grain,
Its gowden tresses press the earth,
Oh! dool and wae, sic harvest day
Gies cause to fear for coming dearth;
And mak's us doubt His high behest,
As if He kenn'd nae what was best.

The shearers listless lounge about
In shed an' stable, barn an' byre,
The anxious farmer 'gins to doubt
Gin e'er the weather will be dryer,
And shakin' slow his touzy head,
Growls, “This is sair to thole indeed.”

But noo he taps the weather-glass,
His brow is flush'd—he sees it rise;
Th' excited reapers round him press
Wi' ruddy cheeks an' sparklin' eyes;
And in each strong right hand is seen
A sickle gleaming sharp and keen.

And, lo, the sun streams brichtly doun,
The hazy cluds dissolve in air,
While Nature wears a shining crown
Of glory on her forehead fair;
Hymning anew o'er hill and dale,
“Seed-time and harvest ne'er shall fail.”