The First of May

My tale I take from times of old,
When truth was more esteem'd than gold;
When pride walk'd threadbare and despis'd,
When folks were better exercis'd
Than now-a-days, when broils and strife
Defiles the story of each life.

A country villa, near a green,
Inhabitants, but twice sixteen;
An honest 'squire held the hall,
Surrounded by a turfen wall,
The friend and landlord of 'em all.
A neighbourhood so well inclin'd,
So simple, honest, and so kind,
Each try'd his neighbour to excel,
In friendship, and in doing well.

As soon as morning dawn appear'd,
Or early chanticleer was heard,
E'er the fond herds began to feed,
Or Fairies fled the blushing mead,
The thrifty villagers arose,
And from the bed of sweet repose,
They met the labours of the day,
And chearful, sung the time away;
At eventide, when work was done,
They all return'd at setting sun,
And met upon the plain—with glee
They pip'd, and danc'd upon the lee;
There in a lowly, simple state,
They felt the joys that fly the great;
No load of conscience gall'd their breast,
Content and labour gave 'em rest.

'Twas now the rosy morn of May,
When Flora, in her best array
Bedeck'd each little rising hill
With cowslips sweet, or daffodil;
A may-pole tall, with garlands hung,
And rows of birds eggs neatly strung,
Was plac'd upon a verdant green,
A tribute to the morning's queen.

Each rustic summons forth his fair,
And round the pole they all repair.
The 'squire 'mongst the rest arose,
As 'twas his custom to dispose
Of various gifts, upon that day,
And gave good ale and cakes away.

Twelve garlands one small hillock grac'd,
In simple order each was plac'd.
The honest 'squire now propos'd,
That each, by choice, shou'd be dispos'd;
Said ev'ry swain had equal right
To any garland, now in sight,
And all beneath, if ought shou'd be,
To claim, his right and property.
For each, some little prize contain'd,
So that the loser, something gain'd,
Tho' some were greater than the rest,
Each swain now strove to choose the best.

Young Ralph, a fair and comely swain,
The very hero of the plain,
Beheld fair Alecy, on her way,
No star so bright, no nymph so gay;
Her small and easy waist was bound
With wreaths most sweet; her head was crown'd
With ev'ry flower of the field,
That Flora's self, to her might yield.
She, on her head a garland bore,
Its equal ne'er was seen before.

Young Ralph set off full speed, to meet
This lovely maid, this nymph complete,
And struck the rest with great surprize,
To see him claim her for his prize;
He first bereav'd her of her crown,
And claim'd the maiden, all his own.

Now ev'ry youngster on the plain,
Look'd with envy on the swain,
But all in justice did declare,
He won the maid;—the trick was fair.

The 'Squire paus'd, and shook his head,
His hearty smile of humour fled,
To see his child another's claim,
And now he 'gan himself to blame.
The swain beheld the good man's eyes,
With tears, he offer'd back his prize.

The 'Squire, charm'd at such a deed,
Cry'd, you deserve her now indeed!
It glads me much, young swain, to find,
Thou bear'st so great, so good a mind;
Here, take her, lad,—I murmur not,
If she's contented with her lot.

She smil'd consent, and chear'd the drooping swain,
She gave her hand, her meaning to explain.
The 'Squire saw, and bless'd the blooming pair,
And three loud vollies broke the peaceful air.