Walking across dry green fields grass knee high so rich so very dark,
I lifted my scythe high and it swept over the meadow with sharp ease,
Cutting the perennial clover as it filled the air with a sweet scent,
A razor sharp scythe dropping the yellow goats beard and dog daisies.
The dreaded scythe chopped the chervil under hedges, trees and fences,
Next the yellow rattle, the lotus and beautiful quake-grass and poas,
The day moved on quickly so down went the fescues and rough cocksfoot,
In the rank grounds, the wild oats and darnels by the small waysides.
Nothing would be left as the red pensile panicles and covered foxtails,
The timothy fell with their spikes on the edge of shaded wood forests,
And the light air-grass and the purple burnet all through the meadows,
I took my shirt off the twig of a tree and me and the scythe went home.