There is music in the field
Where the reapers keen scythes wield
In the corn stalks half-concealed:
Who is that so sweet of glance
Who among the sheaves doth dance,
And the whole glad scene enhance?
Who so fair of form and face?
Who so full of life and grace?
Who the darling of the place?
Weary men come home at last
Hungry to their earned repast,
Who flits round the table fast?
She the farmer’s joy and pride;
She for whom his work is plied;
There’s not one but would have died
For Anna Moyra.
Rough men worship where she treads,
Bowing down their hoary heads,
Dreaming of thee in their beds,
Who could give the cheering word
When no other voice was heard?
Who with love a cold heart stirred?
Who was nurse when one was ill?
Who with joy did suffering kill?
Now the farmer’s old and gray,
Time with him has had its way,
Came for him a tragic day,
Thou so loving, thou so pure,
Tempted by a golden lure,
Went for ever through the door,
Now the farm is still and dead,
Now the thistle lifts its head,
All the happiness is fled,
Mayhap now the darkening glades
When the twilight throws its shades
Thy poor spirit oft invades