deepflourdoughmillerwhethercookafardustycradlesgrindingglowdothvalleyreapersa-kneadingALICE'S SUPPER.Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep,And the reapers are making the cradles sweep;And this is the song that I hear them sing,While cheery and loud their voices ring:"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow!And it is for Alice's supper--ho! ho!"far down by the river the old mill stands,And the miller is rubbing his dusty hands;And these are the words of the miller's lay,As he watches the millstones grinding away:This the finest flour that money can buy,And it is for Alice's supper--hi! hi!"Downstairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,And cook is a-kneading the soft, white dough;And this is the song she is singing to-day,As merry and busy she's working away:"'Tis the finest dough, whether near or afar,And it is for Alice's supper--ha! ha!"
