There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand gray to the sun,

Singing: -- "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,

And your English summer's done."

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song -- how long! how long?

Pull out on the trail again!