Come, ye rout, it's now September,
The Hunter's Moon's begun.
And through the wheat and stubble,
We hear the frequent gun.
The leaves are fading yellow,
And burning into red,
While the ripe and bearded barley
Is hangin' down it's head

All amongst the barley,
Who would not be blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.
All amongst the barley,
Who would not blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.

Wheat is like a rich man,
He's sleek and well-to-do.
The Oats are like a pack of girls,
A thin and dancing crew.
Rye is like a miser,
He's sulky, mean and small,
But the ripe and bearded barley
Is Monarch of them all.

All amongst the barley,
Who would not be blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.
All amongst the barley,
Who would not blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.

Spring is like a young maid,
who does not know her mind.
The Summer, he's a tyrant
Of the most ungracious kind.
Autumn, he's an old friend,
who pleaseth all he can,
He brings the bearded barley
To glad the heart of men.

All amongst the barley,
Who would not be blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.
All amongst the barley,
Who would not blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.

The babe it knows no grief nor care.
Safe in its mothers breast.
The grown man, he must strive and strain,
It's seldom he can rest.
The grey beard sits and takes his ease,
Where care no more holds sway.
With pipe, and dog, and clear brown ale,
He dreams the time away.

All amongst the barley,
Who would not be blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe.
All amongst the barley,
Who would not blithe?
When the ripe and bearded barley is
Smilin' on the scythe