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The wheat is ripe, the scythe gleams
Song
The wheat is ripe, the scythe gleams.
The good God gave it, we will carry it home.
Come, my rose, your place is next to me,
After the harvest, they will bandage your head.
The good God gave it, we will carry it home.
Come, my rose, your place is next to me,
After the harvest, they will bandage your head.