And maybe it's autumn and she is stifled by a chill,
There's a girl with a hay rake walking up a hill,
And New England has borne its harvest unto she,
And you can't tell that she is walking wearily,

Her hand on her hip there, her face in shadow from her cowl,
Oh, but you can trace a fair hair or the snow-fall of her jowl,
A girl with a hay rake 'mid the crooked autumn lee
Of the wind in the sycamore, tired as can be,

And when the red wings fly through the evening by and by,
She will sit beside the cider mill and drink the apples dry.

There's certainly a hay field, her fatigue on which to blame,
Over yonder way there, through the trees from whence she came,
Maybe there's a father, from when first she had begun,
Kept his gaze upon her, making sure her work got done,

And when the red wings fly through the evening by and by,
She will sit beside the cider mill and drink the apples dry.

And all around her kitchen, the siblings hurl themselves about,
There's a yearning inside her trying to get out,
But for the while there's gravy, mashed potatoes, boiling stew,
She will eat them in silence until eating time is through,

And when the red wings fly through the evening by and by,
She will sit beside the cider mill and drink the apples dry.

And maybe it's autumn and she is stifled by a chill,
There's a girl with a hay rake walking up a hill,
There's a girl with a hay rake walking up a hill.

See also:
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