The live in the fields
With the grass as their bed
Then the shed is their home
Till to cows they are fed


But first they can ride
In a bumpy old cart
Reaching up to the sky
They don’t spill; it’s an art
And along the way
Little things catch a ride
Mostly boys and some girls
Who won’t walk along side


They slide and they jump
They sit, stand, and don’t fall
The bales have a great load
Yet they don’t squirm at all
The children, they do
For joy they can’t hide
The delight is so great
That comes from a hay ride


