The Farmer's Round FIRST comes January, The sun lies very low : I see in the farmer's yard The cattle feed on stro'; The weather being so cold, The snow lies on the ground. There will be another change of moon Before the year comes round. Next is February, So early in the spring: I think upon the increase, March it is the next month, So cold and hard and drear: Prepare we now for harvest, God grant that we who labour And drink and dance and welcome Next of months is April, To right and left the corn. In May I go a-walking To hear the linnets sing, The blackbird and the throstle A-praising God the King. It cheers the heart to hear them, Full early in the morning Awakes the summer sun, The month of June arriving, The cold and night are done. The Cuckoo is a fine bird, She whistles as she flies, And as she whistles "Cuckoo" The bluer grow the skies. Six months I now have named, Come, lads and lasses, gather And never cease till daylight sets, August brings the harvest: The reapers now advance, Against their shining sickles The field stands little chance. "Well done!" exclaims the farmer, "This day is all men's friend; We'll drink and feast in plenty When we the harvest end." By middle of September, The rake is laid aside, October leads in winter, The leaves begin to fall, The trees will soon be naked, No flowers left at all: The frosts will bite them sharply, The elm alone is green; In orchard piles of apples red For cider press are seen. The eleventh month, November, And spend the night in song. We take our toast and ale, And kiss and tease the maidens, Or tell a merry tale. Then comes dark December, With holly, box, and laurel We house and church adorn. So now, to end my story, I wish you all good cheer, A merry, happy Christmas, A prosperous New Year. Old Song. A Summer Evening * DOWN OWN the deep, the miry lane, * A fragment. |