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—nursëd daughter,
You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee;
So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her
Whole time well bestowed in nursing of thee.
