Hop-picker's Lay.

If you wish for scenes that are bright and gay,
With plenty of laughter and fun;
Then in Motueka you must stay,
When the harvest of hops has begun.
A hot sun slants through tall green aisles, Where the pickers at bins are working;
There's colour, and chatter, and happy smiles, But, nevertheless no shirking.
“String!” cries a voice o'er the scented air, Which is full of the tang of hops;
And the string-puller brings his long knife there, Cuts o'erhead, and a hop vine drops.
The vine is laid across the bin,
Then quick hands flash and pull,
While the soft green hops fall gently in, And you hope it will soon be full.
At last the long day comes to an end, And you're waiting for the measure;
Then scores are told, and you're free to suspend Your work, for an evening of leisure.
It's pleasant to sit at the whare door, In the light of a picker's camp fire,
While songs are sung, and stories galore, Are told till it's time to retire.

—Prentice Player.

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