Now the hour has come,
to cut the grain,
and this time, on we journey.
We bid farewell,
to these fields of home,
our wagons filled with bounty.
The generosity,
of the land,
that touched the feet,
of our spiral dance,
We bid farewell,
this sacred place,
we hold a fond remembrance.

When we hear the horns of harvest play,
(when the sun is high,
and the hour grows late)
remember again this sacred place,
(when the wind of harvest,
sweeps the grains)
For many homes we’ve yet to know
wherever on this earth we go,
When we the hear the horns of harvest play
(We will remember this place)

The sheafs all gathered,
for the voyage,
our horses packed,
our bundles wrapped,
Yet here we stand,
a final gathering,
we share the fruit
and one last dance.
The generosity
of the sun,
that touched our skin
and warmed our soul,
We bid farewell
this living land,
and take it with us,
wherever we go.

When we hear the horns of harvest play,
(when the sun is high,
and the hour grows late)
remember again this sacred place,
(when the wind of harvest,
sweeps the grains)
For many homes we’ve yet to know
wherever on this earth we go,
When we the hear the horns of harvest play
(We will remember this place)

Now the hour has come,
to share the beauty,
for one last chance
we have to stand,
Hand in hand
in this ancient meadow
heart to heart
on this sacred land.
The generosity
of these fields
they are not the first
we’ve bid farewell,
In seasons past,
we’ve had to part,
so many lands,
that held out hearts.

When we hear the horns of harvest play,
(when the sun is high,
and the hour grows late)
remember again this sacred place,
(when the wind of harvest,
sweeps the grains)
For many homes we’ve yet to know
wherever on this earth we go,
When we the hear the horns of harvest play
We will remember this place.