Come forth, come forth, to the festal board,
As our sires were wont in the days of old;
The reapers are home with their harvest board,
The herds have hied to their wintry fold,
And the cullers of fruit our vaults have stored
With the wealth of the orchard's freight of gold.

Come forth, come forth, with your heart-felt praise,
To swell the songs at the altar's side;
For a lofty paean to God we raise,
Who hath scattered His love gifts free and wide,
And still, from the wan earth's earliest days,
His seed-time and harvest hath not denied.

We hallow the day as our fathers did,
With a mingling of gladness and praise and prayer,
With a willing boon for the lowliest shed,
That the hungry and poor in our thanks may share,
And the scantiest table be freely spread,
And the lip of the mourner a blessing bear.

For the sons of the feeble pilgrim band
Who on a distant rock-bound bay
Gave thanks for the gifts of the teeming land.
Have spread over mountain and stream away;
And a song of praise shall to God ascend
From a myriad burning lips today.

Come forth, come forth, with the chiming bell,
A joyous throng to the altar's side;
Come mingle your tones with the organ's swell;
And, where the door of the feast stands wide,
Let the gray -haired sire to his grandchild tell
A tale of our nation's grateful pride.