Sport in the Meadows
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aytime is to the meadows coming in,And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big,And water blobs and all their golden kinCrowd round the shallows by the striding brig.Daisies and buttercups and ladysmocksAre all abouten shining here and there,Nodding about their gold and yellow locksLike morts of folken flocking at a fair.The sheep and cows are crowding for a shareAnd snatch the blossoms in such eager hasteThat basket-bearing children running thereDo think within their hearts they'll get them allAnd hoot and drive them from their graceless wasteAs though there wa'n't a cowslip peep to spare.--For they want some for tea and some for wineAnd some to maken up a cuckaballTo throw across the garland's silken lineThat reaches oer the street from wall to wall.--Good gracious me, how merrily they fare:One sees a fairer cowslip than the rest,And off they shout--the foremost bidding fairTo get the prize--and earnest half and jestThe next one pops her down--and from her handHer basket falls and out her cowslips allTumble and litter there--the merry bandIn laughing friendship round about her fallTo helpen gather up the littered flowersThat she no loss may mourn. And now the windIn frolic mood among the merry hoursWakens with sudden start and tosses offSome untied bonnet on its dancing wings;Away they follow with a scream and laugh,And aye the youngest ever lags behind,Till on the deep lake's very bank it hings.They shout and catch it and then off they startAnd chase for cowslips merry as before,And each one seems so anxious at the heartAs they would even get them all and more.One climbs a molehill for a bunch of may,One stands on tiptoe for a linnet's nestAnd pricks her hand and throws her flowers awayAnd runs for plantin leaves to have it drest.So do they run abouten all the dayAnd teaze the grass-hid larks from getting rest.--Scarce give they time in their unruly hasteTo tie a shoestring that the grass unties--And thus they run the meadows' bloom to waste,Till even comes and dulls their phantasies,When one finds losses out to stifle smilesOf silken bonnet-strings--and utters sighOer garments renten clambering over stiles.Yet in the morning fresh afield they hie,Bidding the last day's troubles all goodbye;When red pied cow again their coming hears,And ere they clap the gate she tosses upHer head and hastens from the sport she fears:The old yoe calls her lamb nor cares to stoopTo crop a cowslip in their company.Thus merrily the little noisy troopAlong the grass as rude marauders hie,For ever noisy and for ever gayWhile keeping in the meadows holiday.
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