May Day Customs

I have seen the Lady of the May
Set in an arbour, on a holiday,
Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains
Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains,
When envious night commands them to be gone
Call for the merry youngsters one by one,
And for their well performance soon disposes:
To this a garland interwove with roses,
To that a carvèd hook or well-wrought scrip,
Gracing another with her cherry lip;
To one her garter, to another then
A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again;
And none returneth empty that hath spent
His pains to fill their rural merriment.

From Britannia's Pastorals.

William Browne

William Browne (1590–1645) was an English poet from Tavistock, Devon. Best known for his pastoral poetry, Browne's notable works include 'Britannia's Pastorals'. His poetry reflects the influence of Edmund Spenser and his themes often revolve around nature, rural life, and patriotic sentiments. Although his work was not widely known during his time, it has since gained recognition for its lyrical quality and depiction of English countryside traditions.

William Browne

A Pleasant Grove

William Browne, Simple Poetry

Visions - Sonnet - 3

William Browne, Simple Poetry

The Seasons

William Browne, Simple Poetry

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,

William Browne, Simple Poetry

English

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May Day, 1894

Clad is the year in all her best,
    The land is sweet and sheen;
Now Spring with Summer at her breast,
    Goes down the meadows green.

Here are we met to welcome in
    The young abounding year,
To praise what she would have us win
    Ere winter draweth near.

For surely all is not in vain,
    This gallant show she brings;
But seal of hope and sign of gain,
    Beareth this Spring of springs.

No longer now the seasons wear
    Dull, without any tale
Of how the chain the toilers bear
    Is growing thin and frail.

But hope of plenty and goodwill
    Flies forth from land to land,
Nor any now the voice can still
    That crieth on the hand.

A little while shall Spring come back
    And find the Ancient H...

William Morris

The Maypole

The May-pole is up,
Now give me the cup;
I'll drink to the garlands around it;
But first unto those
Whose hands did compose
The glory of flowers that crown'd it.

A health to my girls,
Whose husbands may earls
Or lords be, granting my wishes,
And when that ye wed
To the bridal bed,
Then multiply all, like to fishes.

Robert Herrick

The May-Queen.

    Like flights of singing-birds went by
        The cheerful hours of girlhood's day,
                When, in my native bowers,
                Of simple buds and flowers
They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!

    Like airy sprites the lasses came,
        Spring's offerings at my feet to lay;
                The crystal from the fountain,
                The green bough from the mountain,
They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.

    Around the May-pole on the green,
        A fairy ring they tripped away;
                All merriment and pleasure,
                To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.

    Though years have passed, and Time has strown
        My raven locks with flakes of gra...

George Pope Morris

May

Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping
Across the stepping-stones of meadow streams,
Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping,
But constant Sunshine as her servant seems.
Her heart is up--her sweetness, all a-maying,
Streams in her face, like gems on Beauty's breast;
The swains are sighing all, and well-a-daying,
Lovesick and gazing on their lovely guest.
The Sunday paths, to pleasant places leading,
Are graced by couples linking arm in arm,
Sweet smiles enjoying or some book a-reading,
Where Love and Beauty are the constant charm;
For while the bonny May is dancing by,
Beauty delights the ear, and Beauty fills the eye.

Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone
On May's young festival to be a widow;
The children, too, have pleasures all their...

John Clare

Wreaths For The Ministers. An Anacreontic.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers--
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us--
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities!^[1]

    First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily--
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply;--
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

    Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.<...

Thomas Moore

A Song For May Morning.

Awake! awake! the dusky night
    Is fading from the sky;
Awake! and with the early light
    To pleasant fields we'll hie.
Come with me, and I will show
Where the fragrant wild-flowers grow;
We will weave a garland gay
For our smiling Queen of May.

The sun peeps up behind the hills,
    And hark! the morning song
Of little birds the fresh air fills,
    As now we skip along.
By the brook-side cold and wet,
Blooms the pale, white violet;
There's the purple blossom, too,
Nodding with its weight of dew.

The gentle wind just lifts the head
    Of many a columbine;
And, taken from their rocky bed,
    They in our wreaths shall twine.
Saxifrage, so small and sweet,
Grows in plenty at our feet;
From the grass we gather up,

H. P. Nichols