Play-Ing A-Mong the Sheaves
Oh, who could there be
More mer-ry than we,
On this bright har-vest morn.
As we fro-lic and play,
While we hide a-way,
A-mong the sheaves of corn?
We may fro-lic still
Wher-e-ver we will,
But yet we must not tread
To waste with our feet
The grains of the wheat—
The wheat that makes our bread.
For God, as we need,
Gives the corn to feed
And make us well and strong;
And to waste in vain
His gift of the grain
Would grieve Him, and be wrong.