A book of English poetry; ed. by T. Shorter

PODIS 01' 'mX SOCIAL -U'D DOHJ:S'l'IC A.n'ECTlON:S. 197

Last May we made a crown of dowers ; we had a merry day;
B eneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of
May,
And we danced about the ?.by-pole, and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles'• Wain came out above the lall white ehimney·topt.

There's not a fiower on all the hills : the frost i.s on the pane:
I only wish to live till the snow-drope come again:
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:
I long to &tje a fiower so before the day I die.

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-lrell,
.And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And tbe swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,.
But I shall lie. alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-easement., and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early morning the summer ann 'ill ebine,
Before the red cock. erowa from the farm ·upon the bill,
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world iB still.

When the flowers eome again, mother, beneath the waning light
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
Wben from the dry dark. wold the anmmer airs blow cool
On the oa1-grass and the aword.grue, and the bulrush in the pool.

Yon'll bnry me, my mother, jDilt beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come eometimea and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall bear you when yon PUS.
With your feet above my head in ~he long and pleaaao' gran.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;

You'll k.ias me, my owu mother, and forgive me ere I go;

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,

Yon should no$ fret for me, mother, yon have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;

Though you'll not see me, mother, I •hall look upon your face;

Though 1 cannot apeak A word, I ahall hearken what yon Illy,

And be often often with yon, when you think rm far away.

Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnigb~ for ever-

more,

And you see me carried out from the threshold or the door;

Don't Jet Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green •

She'll be a better child to yon than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden-toola upon the granary .floor:

Let her take 'em-they are her's: I ebaU never garden more:

But tell her, when rm gone, to t rain the rose-bush that I set

About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.