The Union Harvesting.Air—Old Oaken Bucket.Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden,And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain,And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden,Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain;But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer,Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red,And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer,Whose blood for his country is loyally shed,In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed.Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel,And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood—Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal,Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood?Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling?Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won?While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling,In the field be our place, till the field-work is done!In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, till victory is won.
Air—Old Oaken Bucket.
Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden,And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain,And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden,Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain;But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer,Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red,And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer,Whose blood for his country is loyally shed,In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed.Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel,And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood—Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal,Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood?Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling?Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won?While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling,In the field be our place, till the field-work is done!In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, till victory is won.
Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden,And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain,And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden,Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain;But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer,Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red,And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer,Whose blood for his country is loyally shed,In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed.Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel,And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood—Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal,Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood?Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling?Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won?While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling,In the field be our place, till the field-work is done!In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, till victory is won.
Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden,And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain,And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden,Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain;But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer,Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red,And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer,Whose blood for his country is loyally shed,In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed.
Oh, fair is the orchard, with russet fruit laden,
And bright is the cornfield, all golden with grain,
And sweet is the garden, where matron and maiden,
Sit listening at eve to the whippowil’s strain;
But fairer, and brighter, and sweeter, and dearer,
Are the orchards of crimson, the fields of bright red,
And the flow’rets immortal that hallow the wearer,
Whose blood for his country is loyally shed,
In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,
The gardens of Union, for Liberty shed.
Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel,And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood—Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal,Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood?Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling?Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won?While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling,In the field be our place, till the field-work is done!In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,The gardens of Union, till victory is won.
Though the reaper be Death, and his garner the charnel,
And the wine-press o’erflow with our patriot blood—
Though the furrows run red with a vintage incarnal,
Who will shrink from the field? who will pause at the flood?
Who will measure the grain while ’tis standing or falling?
Who will count what is lost, till the day shall be won?
While the sun shines aloft, while the Master is calling,
In the field be our place, till the field-work is done!
In the orchards of Union, the cornfields of Union,
The gardens of Union, till victory is won.