The Months - Poem by Anonymous British
Lo, my fair! the morning lazy
Peeps abroad from yonder hill;
Phoebus rises, red and hazy;
Frost has stopp'd the village mill.
All around looks sad and dreary,
Fast the flaky snow descends:
Yet the red-breast chirrups cheerly,
While the mitten'd lass attends.
Rise the winds and rock the cottage,
Thaws the roof, and wets the path;
Dorcas cooks the savory pottage;
Smokes the cake upon the hearth.
Sunshine intermits with ardor,
Shades fly swiftly o'er the fields;
Showers revive the drooping verdure,
Sweets the sunny upland yields.
Pearly beams the eye of morning;
Child, forbear the deed unblest!
Hawthorn every hedge adorning,
Pluck the flowers - but spare the nest.
Schoolboys, in the brook disporting,
Spend the sultry hour of play:
While the nymphs and swains are courting,
Seated on the new-made hay.
Maids, with each a guardian lover,
While the vivid lightning flies,
Hastening to the nearest cover,
Clasp their hands before their eyes.
See the reapers, gleaners, dining,
Seated on the shady grass;
O'er the gate the squire reclining,
Stily eyes each ruddy lass.
Hark! a sound like distant thunder,
Murderer, may thy malice fail!
Torn from all they love asunder,
Widow'd birds around us wail.
Now Pomona pours her treasure,
Leaves autumnal strew the ground:
Plenty crowns the market measure,
While the mill runs briskly round.
Now the giddy rites of Comus
Crown the hunter's dear delight;
Ah! the year is fleeing from us:
Bleak the day, and drear the night.
Bring more wood, and set the glasses,
Join, my friends, our Christmas cheer,
Come, a catch! - and kiss the lasses -
Christmas comes but once a year.
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