A Ballad of the Corn

By S. H. M. Byers

Oh, the undulating prairies,

And the fields of yellow corn,

Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray.

Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves

Like a distant fairy's horn

And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.

"We have risen from the bosom

Of the beauteous mother earth,

Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long.

There was gladness and rejoicing

When the summer gave us birth,

In the tumult and the dancing and the song.

"When the sumach turns to scarlet,

And the vines along the lane

Are garmented in autumn's golden wine—

Then the land shall smile for plenty,

And the toiler for his pain,

When the soldiers of our army stand in line.

"With our shining blades before us,

And our banners flaming far,

Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore.

And the cornfield's lord of plenty

In his golden-covered car

Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."

Oh, the sunshine and the beauty

On the fields of ripened corn,

And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand.

In the lanes I hear the music

Of the faintly blowing horn

And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.