Hay-making

'Tis hay-time; and the red-complexioned Sun
Was scarcely up, ere blackbirds had begun,
Along the meadow-hedges here and there,
To sing loud songs to the sweet-smelling air,
Whose scent of flowers, and grass, and grazing cow,
Flings o'er one's senses streams of fragrance now;
While in some pleasant nook the swain and maid
Lean o'er their rakes, and loiter in the shade,
Or bend a minute o'er the bridge, and throw
Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below.
Hark at that happy shout, and song between!
'Tis Pleasure's birth-day, in her meadow-scene.
What joy seems half so rich, from pleasure won,
As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun!