The Sowing of the Wind

Jessie Mckay

Who’ll come a-sowing, a-sowing, a-sowing?
Who’ll come a-sowing the merry west wind
The snow-drift’s going, the Spring-flood’s flowing;
The Summer’s before, and the Winter behind.

O we’ll go a-sowing, a-sowing, a-sowing;
Care is a gray beard that died in the snow.
The fair river’s flowing with oars for the rowing;
Down stream’s easy — back we’ll never go.

Who’ll go a-reaping, a-reaping, a-reaping?
The cyclone’s whirling before and behind;
The sand-drifts are heaping, the fisher-folk weeping:
This is the crop of the merry west wind.

Our faces sadden; the sky is leaden;
The pulp was sweet, but bitter is the rind;
The earth is wooden; the lightnings redden;
O we cannot face the reaping of the merry west wind!