Autumn And Winter. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Autumn blithe is come again,
With her brown and merry train;
I caught a sweet glance of her face—
With a sickle in her hand,
She came o'er the gowden land,
And reapers came shearing apace.

Low they bend as they step,
And they hook and they grip,
Cut and carry with hook and with hand;
Merry gleaners sing behind,
Sweet as viol of the wind,
For the poor still have joy in the land.

'Blessed one is he who leaves
By his furrows and his sheaves,
A handful to comfort the poor;
Winter thorough shall he rest,
With his harvest hous'd and bless'd,
Not a wail shall be heard at his door.'

Now the cherry-lipped maid
Unto orchard bower hath stray'd,
Where the plums are all dropping adown
And the apple, bright as gold,
On the soft green sward hath roll'd,
And the sweet pear so melting and brown.

Bonny Bess and rosy Kate
Are gone down through the gate,
Twain fairer are seldom afield;
And with each a handy fork,
They set cheerfully to work
At the drills which the potatoes yield.

There's Red-farmer, dusty sweep,
(That's a famous sort to keep),
And Pink Eye, and rough-coated Rad,
Food for ladyship or Queen,
Bacon slice, or beef between,
And a jack of good ale let them add.

Now the carrots should be dug,
Up with turnips by the lug,
And earth them withouten delay;
Whate'er weather then betide,
We can shelter or abide,
And let Winter come on as he may.

Hark! the old ruffian's shout,
Leading storm and wassail rout, —
Maiden Frost stepping crisply before,
Strewing hoar on fallen leaves,
Painting windows under eaves,
Warning Autumn to linger no more.

Fuel stack is huge and round,
Cottage roof is thatch'd and bound;
There are brown ale and bread on the board.
Winter! bring thy wassail band,
Clog on foot, and glove on hand,
Hearty welcome art thou as a lord!