Sport In The Meadows

Maytime is to the meadows coming in,     And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big,     And water blobs and all their golden kin     Crowd round the shallows by the striding brig.     Daisies and buttercups and ladysmocks     Are all abouten shining here and there,     Nodding about their gold and yellow locks     Like morts of folken flocking at a fair.     The sheep and cows are crowding for a share     And snatch the blossoms in such eager haste     That basket-bearing children running there     Do think within their hearts they'll get them all     And hoot and drive them from their graceless waste     As though there wa'n't a cowslip peep to spare.     --For they want some for tea and some for wine     And some to maken up a cuckaball     To throw across the garland's silken line     That reaches oer the street from wall to wall.     --Good gracious me, how merrily they fare:     One sees a fairer cowslip than the rest,     And off they shout--the foremost bidding fair     To get the prize--and earnest half and jest     The next one pops her down--and from her hand     Her basket falls and out her cowslips all     Tumble and litter there--the merry band     In laughing friendship round about her fall     To helpen gather up the littered flowers     That she no loss may mourn. And now the wind     In frolic mood among the merry hours     Wakens with sudden start and tosses off     Some untied bonnet on its dancing wings;     Away they follow with a scream and laugh,     And aye the youngest ever lags behind,     Till on the deep lake's very bank it hings.     They shout and catch it and then off they start     And chase for cowslips merry as before,     And each one seems so anxious at the heart     As they would even get them all and more.     One climbs a molehill for a bunch of may,     One stands on tiptoe for a linnet's nest     And pricks her hand and throws her flowers away     And runs for plantin leaves to have it drest.     So do they run abouten all the day     And teaze the grass-hid larks from getting rest.     --Scarce give they time in their unruly haste     To tie a shoestring that the grass unties--     And thus they run the meadows' bloom to waste,     Till even comes and dulls their phantasies,     When one finds losses out to stifle smiles     Of silken bonnet-strings--and utters sigh     Oer garments renten clambering over stiles.     Yet in the morning fresh afield they hie,     Bidding the last day's troubles all goodbye;     When red pied cow again their coming hears,     And ere they clap the gate she tosses up     Her head and hastens from the sport she fears:     The old yoe calls her lamb nor cares to stoop     To crop a cowslip in their company.     Thus merrily the little noisy troop     Along the grass as rude marauders hie,     For ever noisy and for ever gay     While keeping in the meadows holiday.