Work-a-day Warriors/Four Rye Sheaves
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?