On an apple-ripe September morning br Through the mist-chill fields I went br With a pitch-fork on my shoulder br Less for use than for devilment. br br The threshing mill was set-up, I knew, br In Cassidy's haggard last night, br And we owed them a day at the threshing br Since last year. O it was delight br br To be paying bills of laughter br And chaffy gossip in kind br With work thrown in to ballast br The fantasy-soaring mind. br br As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered br As I looked into the drain br If ever a summer morning should find me br Shovelling up eels again. br br And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank br And how I got chased one day br Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind, br How I covered my face with hay. br br The wet leaves of the cocksfoot br Polished my boots as I br Went round by the glistening bog-holes br Lost in unthinking joy. br br I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused, br The best job at the mill br With plenty of time to talk of our loves br As we wait for the bags to fill. br br Maybe Mary might call round... br And then I came to the haggard gate, br And I knew as I entered that I had come br Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.