Song of the Day - 13th July

Today's song of the day is a little early, seasonally, but it is the latest performance I have received back from one of my Beta choirs.

When I was making my initial list, right at the beginning of this project, of festivals and occasions I wanted to write songs for, I came across a few that were new to me. Lammas is one of these.

Lammas (from Old English hlāfmæsse, "loaf-mass"), also known as Loaf Mass Day, is a Christian holiday celebrated in some English-speaking countries in the Northern Hemisphere on 1 August. The name originates from the word "loaf" in reference to bread and "Mass" in reference to the Eucharist.

It is a festival in the liturgical calendar to mark the blessing of the First Fruits of harvest, with a loaf of bread being brought to the church for this purpose. Lammastide falls at the halfway point between the summer solstice and the autumn equinox. Christians also have church processions to bakeries, where those working therein are blessed by Christian clergy.

The poem I found to celebrate this is called "Hymn for Lammas Day" by Ernest Jones (1819-1869), a prominent Chartist poet and activist. The poem, published around July 27, 1850, uses the imagery of the Lammas harvest to depict the plight of the working class during the Industrial Revolution. It contrasts the abundance of the harvest with the poverty and hardship faced by labourers. The poem is a call to action, urging the working class to overcome their hardships and fight for a better future.

It is performed for you here by St. Ives Choral Society.

Hymn For Lammas Day

By Ernest Jones

SHARPEN the sickle!  The fields are white,

    'Tis the time of the harvest at last;

Reapers! be up with the morning light,

    Ere the blush of its youth be past.

Why stand on the highway, and lounge at the gate,

    With a summer day's work to perform?

If we wait for the hiring, 'tis long we may wait—

    Till the hour of the night and the storm.

Sharpen the sickle!  How proud they stand,

    In the pomp of their golden grain!

But I'm thinking, ere noon, 'neath the sweep of my hand,

    How many shall lie on the plain!

Tho' the ditch be wide, the fence be high,—

    There's a spirit to carry us o'er;

For God never meant his people to die

    In sight of so rich a store.

Sharpen the sickle!  How full are the ears!

    And at home they are crying for bread;

And the field has been watered with orphans' tears,

    And enriched with their father's dead.

And hopes that are buried, and hearts that broke,

    Lie deep in the treasuring sod:

Then dash down the grain with a thunderstroke,

    In the name of humanity's God!