It is sweet, love, to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover;
Where each lass may partake
In the toil and the pleasure,
Keeping time, with the rake,
To the lark's tuneful measure.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.

There the swains cut their paths
Through the sections assigned them,
Leaving sweet-scented swaths
Swelling gayly behind them.
Tender childhood and age,
Sturdy manhood and beauty,
All with ardor engage
In so pleasing a duty.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.

As the billow of grass
Over the meadow is driven,
By some rose-visaged lass
'Tis divided and riven,
When her swain lends his aid,
And the green hillock rises,

Then the half-willing maid
With a sly kiss surprises.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white blossomed clover.

See the gay romping elves,
Now the sweet task is over,
All amusing themselves,
On the balm-breathing clover;
There the swain whispers love
To his heart's dearest treasure,
Who affects to reprove,
While her eyes beam with pleasure.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.