I saw the mowers swinging
Their scythes in the English hay . . .
What swathes of dead are lying
In fields of France this day!

The mowers mow in the sunshine,
Their scythes flash all together -
Even as flash the bayonets
Out there in the golden weather.

The mowers mow in the sunshine,
The sweat stands on each brow . . .
It is blood, not sweat, our bravest
Spend in war's windrows now.

I see the mowers swinging
Their scythes in the grass and flowers . . .
Ah God! What price has bought it,
This English peace of ours!