Hang your head down heavy like the barley grain,
Standing full and fated for to die.
See the mourners passing for the barley grain,
Feel the Sun die slowly in the sky.
We head out to the fields to cut the barley down;
Our hero brave and bold will soon lie on the ground.
The harvest comes upon us, soon we will be found -a-
Singin' out a mournful wail, to cut old barley down.
The sweat and dust of harvest clings upon our skin;
Lugh burns his hottest as his death is ushered in.
Our sickles cut the grain, we've waited for this day -the
Year is turning to the cold, we hear the old ones say:
From growing green, to yellow wise one, now he stands;
The Lady's love is lost, and dies upon the land.
Soon we will labor as the days grow shorter still -a-
Bringin' in the harvest, see our fire on the hill.
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