Ripe and bearded barley

 

Verse 1

Come out, 'tis now September,
The hunter's moon's begun,
And through the wheaten stubble,
We hear the frequent gun.

Verse 2

The leaves are turning yellow,
And fading into red,
While the ripe and bearded barley,
Is hanging down its head

Verse 3

The wheat is like a rich man,
It's sleek and well to do;
The oats are like a pack of girls,
They're thin and dancing, too.

Verse 4

The rye is like a miser,
Both sulky, lean and small,
While the ripe and bearded barley
Is the monarch of them all.