Pumpins are heaped in piles,
Big and round and yel­low;
Apples are stored away,
Rosy-cheeked and mel­low;
Oats and bar­ley fill each bin,
Corn and wheat are ga­thered in,
Fragrance of new-mown hay
Through the wide barn pass­es—
Scent of sum­mer grass­es.

Squirrels their plans have laid,
For the win­ter wea­ther.
Brown nuts are packed away,
Lying snug to­ge­ther.
Through the sun­ny sum­mer hours
Bees were steal­ing sweets from flow’rs,
Now they need have no fear,
With their gold­en treasure—
Honey with­out mea­sure.

Father of child and bee,
For us ev­er car­ing,
Squirrel and small­est bird
In Thy boun­ty shar­ing;
Hear us sing our har­vest song,
Of Thy love the whole year long.
Father of child and bee,
We our thanks are bring­ing—
Listen to our sing­ing.