Classic Poem

Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry mistrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
& twittering swallows chimney song
& hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
& swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
& every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
& toil & childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village children mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That cuck & catch the bouncing ball
& 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
& jelting 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
Were kin & friends & parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lonly & as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcous dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi morns 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
& cock his hat & turn his eye
On flower & tree & deepning skye
& oft bursts loud in fits of song
& whistles as he reels along
Crack[ing] 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
& sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
& gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing & bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails & pointed ears
They follow him & loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
& feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush & tree
Seem chirping for his company
& 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 & long
& list the weeders toiling song
Or short not[e] 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 lushy 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
& chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Then were they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
He s cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Were he admires wi fond delight
& longs to be their mate till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now & then to play
Rambling about the field & plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
& picking flowers & boughs of may
To hurd awhile & throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listning 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 night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
& were the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep & cow that teaze the grain
Will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill & mittens bye
& on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
& thins the shadow[s] solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Were as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
& mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree & lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly were they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
& 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
Were man was never feard to come
& smell smocks that from view retires
Mong rustling leaves & bowing briars
& stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades & dews to dally
White beading 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 & bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
& waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
& 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
& carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
& " iron weed " content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads were danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
& leaves wi pricks like thistles round
Thick set that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair — & with its eye of gold
& scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights & showers
Oft calld " the shepherds weather glass "
That sleep till suns have dryd the grass
Then wakes & spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see & talk of rain
& boys that mark them shut so soon
Will call them " John go bed at noon "
& fumitory too a name
That superstitition holds to fame
Whose red & purple mottld flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk & way
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair & sleak
& scour the tan from summers cheek
& simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I th middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers their toil by crowds destroys
& robs them of their lonly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
& oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away & spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my rhymes as thick as showers
Tedious & long as they may be
To some they never weary me
Then wood & mead & field of grain
I coud hunt oer & oer again
& talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
& cull them in my childish joy
By swarms & swarms & never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
& like the clock hand pointing one
Is turned & tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
& season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke & tale & 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
& from the old dames hearing move
Oft making " love knotts " in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
& trying simple charms & spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knopweeds button heads
& 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
& from her white breasts hankerchief
Bloom as they near had lost a leaf
When signs appear that tokens wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
& harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds — slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
& lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That come to live wi spring again
& 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
& proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor mong sheep & cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plovers eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
& coying him another way
& 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 & snive
In clumps about each thronging hive
& flit & thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
& raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstitition plans
To coax them in the gardens bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sound
& 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 & crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
& 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
& hides the blinking owl asleep
& bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crivice of the door
& makes his barn were shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
& as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
He often stands in fond delay
To see the daisey in his way
& 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 & toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads the smuggld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
& 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
& hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes velted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands & crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
& hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start & many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
& in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes & balks
For toils & lovers sunday walks
The daisey & the buttercup
For which the laughing child[ern] stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold & silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo d the sun & swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass & water cresses
& mint & flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
& taper bowbent hanging rushes
& horse tail childerns bottle b[r]ushes
& summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh agen were cattle drink
& 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
& the little star his friend & guide
Travelling together side by side
& the seven stars & 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 & birds & pasture boys
The fire tail long a stranger comes
To his last summer haunts & homes
To hollow tree & crevisd wall
& in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
& school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded cops
Thro its varied turns & stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
& " sweet jug jug " he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks were 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
& from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them " writing larks "
Bum barrels twit on bush & tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
& 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
& bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his gluing nest agen
& sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins their beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
& oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
& if unwatchd his craps to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the homclose sward
Catching at butterflys & things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
& kick & toss their heads in play
The ass beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
& on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Din[n]ing 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
& 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 & nature & to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport & noise
Old may day weres thy glorys gone
All fled & left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts & homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the[e] now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers — May locks new come
& princifeathers cluttering bloom
& blue bells from the wood land moss
& cowslip cucking balls to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hung in the soft eves sober light
These maid & 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 & dead & silent now
The laugh raisd at the mawking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain & maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
" Duck under water " as they ran
Alls ended as they near began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
& were inclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
& garlands lost & sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
& at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring & summers months the queen