Once more we honour Lammas tide
As Corn climbs up toward the sky,
Soon Sythe will striketh every ear;
The Harvest is in for one more year.
And we shall grieve, for our King is dead,
But His Flesh we’ll make into our bread,
His bones we’ll grind into our flour,
His Holy body we shall devour,
The blood we’ll use in place of wine
From our Sacred King divine.
Oh Blessed Lord who hath died
By blade and cord of sacrifice
Bless the land, and kith and kin
As the harvest is gathered in!