And cowslips a fair band For May ball or garland, That bloom in the meadows as seen by the eye; And pink ragged robin, Where the fish they are bobbing Their heads above water to catch at the fly.

Wild flowers and wild roses!

'T is love makes the posies To paint Summer ballads of meadow and glen.

Floods can't drown it nor turn it, Even flames cannot burn it; Let it bloom till we walk the green meadows again.

THE MARCH NOSEGAY

The bonny March morning is beaming In mingled crimson and grey, White clouds are streaking and creaming The sky till the noon of the day; The fir deal looks darker and greener, And gra.s.s hills below look the same; The air all about is serener, The birds less familiar and tame.

Here's two or three flowers for my fair one, Wood primroses and celandine too; I oft look about for a rare one To put in a posy for you.

The birds look so clean and so neat, Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove; The sun shines about me so sweet, I cannot help thinking of love.

So where the blue violets are peeping, By the warm sunny sides of the woods, And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping, Amid a large cl.u.s.ter of buds, (The morning it was such a rare one, So dewy, so sunny, and fair,) I sought the wild flowers for my fair one, To wreath in her glossy black hair.

LEFT ALONE

Left in the world alone, Where nothing seems my own, And everything is weariness to me, 'T is a life without an end, 'T is a world without a friend, And everything is sorrowful I see.

There's the crow upon the stack, And other birds all black, While bleak November's frowning wearily; And the black cloud's dropping rain, Till the floods hide half the plain, And everything is dreariness to me.

The sun shines wan and pale, Chill blows the northern gale, And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree, While I am left alone, Chilled as a mossy stone, And all the world is frowning over me.

TO MARY

Mary, I love to sing About the flowers of Spring, For they resemble thee.

In the earliest of the year Thy beauties will appear, And youthful modesty.

Here's the daisy's silver rim, With gold eye never dim, Spring's earliest flower so fair.

Here the pilewort's golden rays Set the cow green in a blaze, Like the sunshine in thy hair.

Here's forget-me-not so blue; Is there any flower so true?

Can it speak my happy lot?

When we courted in disguise This flower I used to prize, For it said "Forget-me-not."

Speedwell! And when we meet In the meadow paths so sweet, Where the flowers I gave to thee All grew beneath the sun, May thy gentle heart be won, And I be blest with thee.

THE NIGHTINGALE

This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: This is the time when in the vale, gra.s.s-grown, The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows, What time the blue mist round the patient cows Dim rises from the gra.s.s and half conceals Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale, That from the little blackthorn spinney steals To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale, And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels The thrilling music as he goes along, And imitates and listens; while the fields Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong, Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song.

THE DYING CHILD

He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well.

His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children of the Spring: When he was well and on the lea He held one in his hands to sing, Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the Spring!

How can an infant die When b.u.t.terflies are on the wing, Green gra.s.s, and such a sky?

How can they die at Spring?

He held his hands for daisies white, And then for violets blue, And took them all to bed at night That in the green fields grew, As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes, And flowers would notice not; Bird's nests and eggs caused no surprise, He now no blossoms got: They met with plaintive sighs.

When Winter came and blasts did sigh, And bare were plain and tree, As he for ease in bed did lie His soul seemed with the free, He died so quietly.

MARY

The skylark mounts up with the morn, The valleys are green with the Spring, The linnets sit in the whitethorn, To build mossy dwellings and sing; I see the thornbush getting green, I see the woods dance in the Spring, But Mary can never be seen, Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin.

I see the grey bark of the oak Look bright through the underwood now; To the plough plodding horses they yoke, But Mary is not with her cow.

The birds almost whistle her name: Say, where can my Mary be gone?

The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame That she should be absent alone.

The cowslips are out on the gra.s.s, Increasing like crowds at a fair; The river runs smoothly as gla.s.s, And the barges float heavily there; The milkmaid she sings to her cow, But Mary is not to be seen; Can Nature such absence allow At milking on pasture and green?

When Sabbath-day comes to the green, The maidens are there in their best, But Mary is not to be seen, Though I walk till the sun's in the west.

I fancy still each wood and plain, Where I and my Mary have strayed, When I was a young country swain, And she was the happiest maid.

But woods they are all lonely now, And the wild flowers blow all unseen; The birds sing alone on the bough, Where Mary and I once have been.

But for months she now keeps away.

And I am a sad lonely hind; Trees tell me so day after day, As slowly they wave in the wind.

Birds tell me, while swaying the bough, That I am all threadbare and old; The very sun looks on me now As one dead, forgotten, and cold.

Once I'd a place where I could rest.

And love, for then I was free; That place was my Mary's dear breast And hope was still left unto me.

The Spring comes brighter day by day, And brighter flowers appear, And though she long has kept away Her name is ever dear.

Then leave me still the meadow flowers, Where daffies blaze and shine; Give but the Spring's young hawthorn bower, For then sweet Mary's mine.