Yesterday the fields of winter oats
were nodding new heads to the wind
but today they're cut and lay like thatch
upon a roof that has no end

And it will sit another day
beneath the spring sun bright and warm
to dry and cure to shade of mint
in this far field of this old farm

After that will come the rake
to arrange it into neat windrows
all marching in a single file
the fragrance wafts where the wind blows

Then the baler will consume all rows
in old days it discharged square bales
alas, in this newer modern age
great round bundles fill the swales

No group of strong young men will gather
to haul the hay to a dry shed
all handled by machinery now
I guess companionship has fled

Yet the results will be the same
by the ending of the final morn
the field will be devoid of hay
resembling a head closely shorn