Classic Poem

When the summer-time is gone, and the races all are run,
Our luck's not over yet, for the hopping has begun:
So come, my Gipsy brothers, if everything is spent,
We'll all be off together to the pleasant land of Kent;
And we'll all sing in time,
And we'll all sing in rhyme,
A song of the merry hopping-time.

Oh, the flowers are fading fast, and the nuts are growing brown;
The leaves are turning yellow, and the wind will blow them down;
But no matter for the flower, and no matter for the tree,
The hops are all the flowers I would ever care to see;
They're the best of all that grow,
So get up, lads, and go
To the country where the hops hang low

There the poles stand in line, like the men that serve the Queen,
And the bines twist around them, and cover them with green:
There's no prettier sight, let the rest be what they may,
Than a fine Kentish hop-field on a sunny autumn day
Come, Gipsy boys so tall,
Come, Gipsy children small—
There's money waiting yonder for us all!

Oh, the air smells so sweet where the ripe hop-blossoms are,
You'd think you were sitting in a jolly alehouse bar;
It's just like drinking beer in with every breath you draw—
Oh, sure 'tis a wonder that it's not against the law!
Bring the horse and the tent—
We'll none of us repent
Having gone to the pleasant land of Kent.

We'll pitch our little tent, and at night when work is done,
We'll sit round the fire, and we'll hang the kettle on;
And if Gorgios ask what's in it, we'll say, “What should there be
In the poor Gipsies' kettle but a little drop of tea?”
And we'll sing half the night,
And we'll dance and we'll fight,
Then we'll sleep till the sun rises bright.

When all the hops are picked, then we'll travel to the town,
And I'll buy a coat, and my wife will buy a gown,
And we'll get a stock of baskets and sweeping-brushes too:
Oh, the hopping keeps us going all the dreary winter through
So when nights are cold and long,
Let us sing loud and strong,
And remember the hopping in our song.