Work-a-day Warriors/Four Rye Sheaves

by Joseph Lee

FOUR RYE SHEAVES

Four rye sheaves to be my bed;
"Now God me save," was the prayer I said;

And sweet was the sleep that came to me,
For I was home where I fain would be;

And sweet was the dream that sleep did yield,
A flowering bank, and a daisied field;

A lovers' lane, and a winsome maid—
But I never heard the word she said;

I never heard what word she spoke,
For the bugle was blown and I awoke.
····· Four rye sheaves to be my bed—
But where this night may I lay my head?

Four rye sheaves to be my bed—
Will she come with that word if I am dead?