May

Come queen of months in company     Wi all thy merry minstrelsy     The restless cuckoo absent long     And twittering swallows chimney song     And hedge row crickets notes that run     From every bank that fronts the sun     And swathy bees about the grass     That stops wi every bloom they pass     And every minute every hour     Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower     And toil and childhoods humming joys     For there is music in the noise     The village childern mad for sport     In school times leisure ever short     That crick and catch the bouncing ball     And run along the church yard wall     Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims     In times bad memory hath no names     Oft racing round the nookey church     Or calling ecchos in the porch     And jilting oer the weather cock     Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock     Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights     Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights     The green grass swelld in many a heap     Where kin and friends and parents sleep     Unthinking in their jovial cry     That time shall come when they shall lye     As lowly and as still as they     While other boys above them play     Heedless as they do now to know     The unconcious dust that lies below     The shepherd goes wi happy stride     Wi moms long shadow by his side     Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may     That once was over shoes in clay     While martins twitter neath his eves     Which he at early morning leaves     The driving boy beside his team     Will oer the may month beauty dream     And cock his hat and turn his eye     On flower and tree and deepning skye     And oft bursts loud in fits of song     And whistles as he reels along     Cracking his whip in starts of joy     A happy dirty driving boy     The youth who leaves his corner stool     Betimes for neighbouring village school     While as a mark to urge him right     The church spires all the way in sight     Wi cheerings from his parents given     Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven     And sawns wi many an idle stand     Wi bookbag swinging in his hand     And gazes as he passes bye     On every thing that meets his eye     Young lambs seem tempting him to play     Dancing and bleating in his way     Wi trembling tails and pointed ears     They follow him and loose their fears     He smiles upon their sunny faces     And feign woud join their happy races     The birds that sing on bush and tree     Seem chirping for his company     And all in fancys idle whim     Seem keeping holiday but him     He lolls upon each resting stile     To see the fields so sweetly smile     To see the wheat grow green and long     And list the weeders toiling song     Or short note of the changing thrush     Above him in the white thorn bush     That oer the leaning stile bends low     Loaded wi mockery of snow     Mozzld wi many a lushing thread     Of crab tree blossoms delicate red     He often bends wi many a wish     Oer the brig rail to view the fish     Go sturting by in sunny gleams     And chucks in the eye dazzld streams     Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch     The swarming struttle come to catch     Them where they to the bottom sile     Sighing in fancys joy the while     Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh     By rosey milkmaid tripping bye     Where he admires wi fond delight     And longs to be there mute till night     He often ventures thro the day     At truant now and then to play     Rambling about the field and plain     Seeking larks nests in the grain     And picking flowers and boughs of may     To hurd awhile and throw away     Lurking neath bushes from the sight     Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night     Listing each hour for church clocks hum     To know the hour to wander home     That parents may not think him long     Nor dream of his rude doing wrong     Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain     To meet his masters wand again     Each hedge is loaded thick wi green     And where the hedger late hath been     Tender shoots begin to grow     From the mossy stumps below     While sheep and cow that teaze the grain     will nip them to the root again     They lay their bill and mittens bye     And on to other labours hie     While wood men still on spring intrudes     And thins the shadow solitudes     Wi sharpend axes felling down     The oak trees budding into brown     Where as they crash upon the ground     A crowd of labourers gather round     And mix among the shadows dark     To rip the crackling staining bark     From off the tree and lay when done     The rolls in lares to meet the sun     Depriving yearly where they come     The green wood pecker of its home     That early in the spring began     Far from the sight of troubling man     And bord their round holes in each tree     In fancys sweet security     Till startld wi the woodmans noise     It wakes from all its dreaming joys     The blue bells too that thickly bloom     Where man was never feared to come     And smell smocks that from view retires     Mong rustling leaves and bowing briars     And stooping lilys of the valley     That comes wi shades and dews to dally     White beady drops on slender threads     Wi broad hood leaves above their heads     Like white robd maids in summer hours     Neath umberellas shunning showers     These neath the barkmens crushing treads     Oft perish in their blooming beds     Thus stript of boughs and bark in white     Their trunks shine in the mellow light     Beneath the green surviving trees     That wave above them in the breeze     And waking whispers slowly bends     As if they mournd their fallen friends     Each morning now the weeders meet     To cut the thistle from the wheat     And ruin in the sunny hours     Full many wild weeds of their flowers     Corn poppys that in crimson dwell     Calld head achs from their sickly smell     And carlock yellow as the sun     That oer the may fields thickly run     And iron weed content to share     The meanest spot that spring can spare     Een roads where danger hourly comes     Is not wi out its purple blooms     And leaves wi points like thistles round     Thickset that have no strength to wound     That shrink to childhoods eager hold     Like hairand with its eye of gold     And scarlet starry points of flowers     Pimpernel dreading nights and showers     Oft calld the shepherds weather glass     That sleep till suns have dyd the grass     Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom     Till clouds or threatning shadows come     Then close it shuts to sleep again     Which weeders see and talk of rain     And boys that mark them shut so soon     will call them John go bed at noon     And fumitory too a name     That superstition holds to fame     Whose red and purple mottled flowers     Are cropt by maids in weeding hours     To boil in water milk and way1     For washes on an holiday     To make their beauty fair and sleak     And scour the tan from summers cheek     And simple small forget me not     Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot     Ith middle of its tender blue     That gains from poets notice due     These flowers the toil by crowds destroys     And robs them of their lowly joys     That met the may wi hopes as sweet     As those her suns in gardens meet     And oft the dame will feel inclind     As childhoods memory comes to mind     To turn her hook away and spare     The blooms it lovd to gather there     My wild field catalogue of flowers     Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers     Tedious and long as they may be     To some, they never weary me     The wood and mead and field of grain     I coud hunt oer and oer again     And talk to every blossom wild     Fond as a parent to a child     And cull them in my childish joy     By swarms and swarms and never cloy     When their lank shades oer morning pearls     Shrink from their lengths to little girls     And like the clock hand pointing one     Is turnd and tells the morning gone     They leave their toils for dinners hour     Beneath some hedges bramble bower     And season sweet their savory meals     Wi joke and tale and merry peals     Of ancient tunes from happy tongues     While linnets join their fitful songs     Perchd oer their heads in frolic play     Among the tufts of motling may     The young girls whisper things of love     And from the old dames hearing move     Oft making love knotts in the shade     Of blue green oat or wheaten blade     And trying simple charms and spells     That rural superstition tells     They pull the little blossom threads     From out the knapweeds button heads     And put the husk wi many a smile     In their white bosoms for awhile     Who if they guess aright the swain     That loves sweet fancys trys to gain     Tis said that ere its lain an hour     Twill blossom wi a second flower     And from her white breasts hankerchief     Bloom as they neer had lost a leaf     When signs appear that token wet     As they are neath the bushes met     The girls are glad wi hopes of play     And harping of the holiday     A hugh blue bird will often swim     Along the wheat when skys grow dim     Wi cloudsslow as the gales of spring     In motion wi dark shadowd wing     Beneath the coming storm it sails     And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails     That came to live wi spring again     And start when summer browns the grain     They start the young girls joys afloat     Wi wet my foot its yearly note     So fancy doth the sound explain     And proves it oft a sign of rain     About the moor mong sheep and cow     The boy or old man wanders now     Hunting all day wi hopful pace     Each thick sown rushy thistly place     For plover eggs while oer them flye     The fearful birds wi teazing cry     Trying to lead their steps astray     And coying him another way     And be the weather chill or warm     Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm     Holding each prize their search has won     They plod bare headed to the sun     Now dames oft bustle from their wheels     Wi childern scampering at their heels     To watch the bees that hang and swive     In clumps about each thronging hive     And flit and thicken in the light     While the old dame enjoys the sight     And raps the while their warming pans     A spell that superstition plans     To coax them in the garden bounds     As if they lovd the tinkling sounds     And oft one hears the dinning noise     Which dames believe each swarm decoys     Around each village day by day     Mingling in the warmth of may     Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives     To rub the bramble platted hives     Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm     To scent the new house of the swarm     The thresher dull as winter days     And lost to all that spring displays     Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand     Swings his frail round wi weary hand     While oer his head shades thickly creep     And hides the blinking owl asleep     And bats in cobweb corners bred     Sharing till night their murky bed     The sunshine trickles on the floor     Thro every crevice of the door     And makes his barn where shadows dwell     As irksome as a prisoners cell     And as he seeks his daily meal     As schoolboys from their tasks will steal     ile often stands in fond delay     To see the daisy in his way     And wild weeds flowering on the wall     That will his childish sports recall     Of all the joys that came wi spring     The twirling top the marble ring     The gingling halfpence hussld up     At pitch and toss the eager stoop     To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays     Neath hovels upon sabbath days     When parson he is safe from view     And clerk sings amen in his pew     The sitting down when school was oer     Upon the threshold by his door     Picking from mallows sport to please     Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese     And hunting from the stackyard sod     The stinking hen banes belted pod     By youths vain fancys sweetly fed     Christning them his loaves of bread     He sees while rocking down the street     Wi weary hands and crimpling feet     Young childern at the self same games     And hears the self same simple names     Still floating on each happy tongue     Touchd wi the simple scene so strong     Tears almost start and many a sigh     Regrets the happiness gone bye     And in sweet natures holiday     His heart is sad while all is gay     How lovly now are lanes and balks     For toils and lovers sunday walks     The daisey and the buttercup     For which the laughing childern stoop     A hundred times throughout the day     In their rude ramping summer play     So thickly now the pasture crowds     In gold and silver sheeted clouds     As if the drops in april showers     Had wood the sun and swoond to flowers     The brook resumes its summer dresses     Purling neath grass and water cresses     And mint and flag leaf swording high     Their blooms to the unheeding eye     And taper bowbent hanging rushes     And horse tail childerns bottle brushes     And summer tracks about its brink     Is fresh again where cattle drink     And on its sunny bank the swain     Stretches his idle length again     Soon as the sun forgets the day     The moon looks down on the lovly may     And the little star his friend and guide     Travelling together side by side     And the seven stars and charleses wain     Hangs smiling oer green woods agen     The heaven rekindles all alive     Wi light the may bees round the hive     Swarm not so thick in mornings eye     As stars do in the evening skye     All all are nestling in their joys     The flowers and birds and pasture boys     The firetail, long a stranger, comes     To his last summer haunts and homes     To hollow tree and crevisd wall     And in the grass the rails odd call     That featherd spirit stops the swain     To listen to his note again     And school boy still in vain retraces     The secrets of his hiding places     In the black thorns crowded copse     Thro its varied turns and stops     The nightingale its ditty weaves     Hid in a multitude of leaves     The boy stops short to hear the strain     And sweet jug jug he mocks again     The yellow hammer builds its nest     By banks where sun beams earliest rest     That drys the dews from off the grass     Shading it from all that pass     Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze     That hunts thro evry secret maze     He finds its pencild eggs agen     All streakd wi lines as if a pen     By natures freakish hand was took     To scrawl them over like a book     And from these many mozzling marks     The school boy names them writing larks     Bum barrels twit on bush and tree     Scarse bigger then a bumble bee     And in a white thorns leafy rest     It builds its curious pudding-nest     Wi hole beside as if a mouse     Had built the little barrel house     Toiling full many a lining feather     And bits of grey tree moss together     Amid the noisey rooky park     Beneath the firdales branches dark     The little golden crested wren     Hangs up his glowing nest agen     And sticks it to the furry leaves     As martins theirs beneath the eaves     The old hens leave the roost betimes     And oer the garden pailing climbs     To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil     And if unwatchd his crops to spoil     Oft cackling from the prison yard     To peck about the houseclose sward     Catching at butterflys and things     Ere they have time to try their wings     The cattle feels the breath of may     And kick and toss their heads in play     The ass beneath his bags of sand     Oft jerks the string from leaders hand     And on the road will eager stoop     To pick the sprouting thistle up     Oft answering on his weary way     Some distant neighbours sobbing bray     Dining the ears of driving boy     As if he felt a fit of joy     Wi in its pinfold circle left     Of all its company bereft     Starvd stock no longer noising round     Lone in the nooks of foddering ground     Each skeleton of lingering stack     By winters tempests beaten black     Nodds upon props or bolt upright     Stands swarthy in the summer light     And oer the green grass seems to lower     Like stump of old time wasted tower     All that in winter lookd for hay     Spread from their batterd haunts away     To pick the grass or lye at lare     Beneath the mild hedge shadows there     Sweet month that gives a welcome call     To toil and nature and to all     Yet one day mid thy many joys     Is dead to all its sport and noise     Old may day wheres thy glorys gone     All fled and left thee every one     Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes     Unnoticd as a stranger comes     No flowers are pluckt to hail the now     Nor cotter seeks a single bough     The maids no more on thy sweet morn     Awake their thresholds to adorn     Wi dewey flowersMay locks new come     And princifeathers cluttering bloom     And blue bells from the woodland moss     And cowslip cucking balls to toss     Above the garlands swinging hight     Hang in the soft eves sober light     These maid and child did yearly pull     By many a folded apron full     But all is past the merry song     Of maidens hurrying along     To crown at eve the earliest cow     Is gone and dead and silent now     The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn     Tyd to the cows tail last that morn     The kerchief at arms length displayd     Held up by pairs of swain and maid     While others bolted underneath     Bawling loud wi panting breath     Duck under water as they ran     Alls ended as they neer began     While the new thing that took thy place     Wears faded smiles upon its face     And where enclosure has its birth     It spreads a mildew oer her mirth     The herd no longer one by one     Goes plodding on her morning way     And garlands lost and sports nigh gone     Leaves her like thee a common day     Yet summer smiles upon thee still     Wi natures sweet unalterd will     And at thy births unworshipd hours     Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers     To crown thee still as thou hast been     Of spring and summer months the queen