The old and young, the weak and strong are there,
And, as they can, help on the cheerful work. 
The father jeers his awkward half-grown lad,
Who trails his tawdry armful o’er the field,
Nor does he fear the jeering to repay. 
The village oracle, and simple maid,
Jest in their turns, and raise the ready laugh;
For there authority, hard favour’d, frowns not;
All are companions in the gen’ral glee,
And cheerful complaisance still thro’ their roughness,
With placid look enlightens ev’ery face. 
Some more advanced raise the tow’ring rick,
Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast
In loose attire, and swelling ruddy cheek;
With taunts and harmless mock’ry she receives
The toss’d-up heaps from the brown gaping youth,
Who flaring at her, takes his aim awry,
Whilst half the load comes tumbling on himself. 
Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar;
Each mower, busied in the distant field,
The carter, trudging on his distant way,
The shrill found know, cad up their hats in air,
And roar across the fields to catch her notice: 
She waves her arm, and shakes her head at them,
And then renews her work with double spirit. 
Thus do they jest, and laugh away their toil,
Till the bright sun, full in his middle course,
Shoots down his fiercest beams, which none may brave. 
The stoutest arm hangs listless by its side,
And the broad shoulder’d youth begins to fail. 
But to the weary, lo! there comes relief! 
A troop of welcome children, o’er the lawn,
With slow and wary steps, their burthens bring. 
Some bear upon their heads large baskets, heap’d
With piles of barley bread, and gusty cheese,
And some full pots of milk and cooling whey. 
Beneath the branches of a spreading tree,
Or by the shad’wy side of the tall rick,
They spread their homely fare, and seated round,
Taste all the pleasure that a feast can give.

A drowzy indolence now hangs on all,
And ev’ry creature seeks some place of rest,
Screen’d from the violence of the oppressive heat. 
No scatter’d flocks are seen upon the lawn,
Nor chirping birds among the bushes heard. 
Within the narrow shadow of the cot
The sleepy dog lies stretched on his side,
Nor heeds the heavy-footed passenger;
At noise of feet but half his eye-lid lifts,
Then gives a feeble growl, and sleeps again: 
Whilst puss, less nice, e’en in the scorching window,
On t’other side, sits winking to the sun. 
No sound is heard but humming of the bee,
For she alone retires not from her labour,
Nor leaves a meadow flower unsought for gain.