The Boys of Goose Hill
There’s a place called Goose Hill
and the boys that live there
are such tricksters and foxes
that none can compare.
Malkin’s their mother
and she’s the White Rose of May,
and Mabon’s their father
—tally-ho and away!
When the kettle boils o’er,
the wheels fall from your cart,
you’re pinched from your sleep,
or the fire won’t start,
when the hens won’t lay eggs,
or there’s knots in your hair,
be sure that the boys
of Goose Hill have been there.
They’re the bees in the heather
that call up the spring,
when the bonfires blaze
from every stone ring;
they’re teasing and canny,
though they mean no great ill,
those Pucks of the midden:
the boys of Goose Hill.
They’re the wind in the field
when the harvesters come
and the corn dollys dance
to the songs that they’ve sung;
there’s a hare on the slopes
and a stag higher still
and a wren harping tunes
for the boys of Goose Hill.
Now the boys of Goose Hill
they know all the old tunes,
they can call up a mist,
they can drink down the moon;
take a hag-stone for luck
and a dram for the cold,
turn your coat inside out
if you want your own road.
Here’s a health to the horn
that the old man once wore,
and the May, bonny May,
and the last sheaf of corn.
Here’s a health to the Green Man
and a health to the Moon,
and to the boys of Goose Hill
that call up the tune.
~Charles de Lint
Ode on the Spring
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
Fair Venus’ train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gather’d fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin’d in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill’d by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic, while ‘tis May.
~Thomas Gray
Now is the Month of Maying
Now is the month of Maying,
When merry lads are playing.
Fa la la…
Each with his bonny lass,
upon the greeny grass.
Fa la la…
The Spring clad all in gladness,
Doth laugh at winter’s sadness.
Fa la la…
And to the Bagpipes sound,
the Nymphs tread out their ground.
Fa la la…
Fie then why sit we musing,
Youth’s sweet delight refusing?
Fa la la…
Say dainty Nymphs and speak,
shall we play barley break?
Fa la la…
~Thomas Morley
May Crown
All early in the morning
I rose to greet the day,
And underneath my window
I saw a Child at play.
The robins were not fearful
Of one so mild and meek;
They lighted on His shoulder
And nested at His cheek.
He picked the clustering roses,
The lily in its sheath,
The long-stemmed purple violets,
And wove them in a wreath.
And then I saw a Lady
Come walking in the dew;
Her robe was white as starshine,
Her mantle was deep blue.
And as the Child approached her,
All sweetly she knelt down
And bent her head, receiving
His fragrant, flowery crown.
~Helen Connolly
Calling The Violet
Dear little Violet,
Don’t be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes
From the rock’s mossy shade!
All the birds call for you
Out of the sky:
May is here, waiting,
And here, too, am I.
Why do you shiver so,
Violet sweet?
Soft is the meadow-grass
Under my feet.
Wrapped in your hood of green,
Violet, why
Peep from your earth-door
So silent and shy?
Trickle the little brooks
Close to your bed;
Softest of fleecy clouds
Float overhead;
“Ready and waiting!”
The slender reeds sigh:
“Ready and waiting!”
We sing—May and I.
Come, pretty Violet,
Winter’s away:
Come, for without you
May isn’t May.
Down through the sunshine
Wings flutter and fly;—
Quick, little Violet,
Open your eye!
Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear Violet, come!”
How can you stay
In your underground home?
Up in the pine-boughs
For you the winds sigh.
Homesick to see you,
Are we—May and I.
Ha! though you care not
For call or for shout,
Yon troop of sunbeams
Are winning you out.
Now all is beautiful
Under the sky:
May’s here—and violets!
Winter, good-by!
~Lucy Larcom
