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SONGS OF THE SEASONS.

A

The Peasant's Song of Spring.

FAR from the city's din and strife,

Let me lead a peasant's happy life, Where the mind from racking care is free As the April clouds that o'er me flee.

The Spring is come with its buds and flowers, With its rainbows bright and sunny showers; As fond suitors on their lovers wait,

So each feathered minstrel finds his mate.

The streams, from their strong ice-fetters free,
Dash on with their waters to the sea;

The angler, bent on his finny prize,
Heeds little the tears of weeping skies.

Now the lilacs wear their purple plumes,
And the hawthorn hedge is white with blooms;
And the willows wave their tassels green,

Where the burnie steals along unseen.

The daisy, tipped with a fringe of red,
On the lea shoots up its modest head;
The bells and the bonnie cups of gold
Their sparkling treasures of dew-drops hold.

On echoing hills the lambies bleat,
Where the heather-linties sing so sweet;
And the woodland glen and shady grove
Now choral ring with their lays of love.

Oh the laverocks build their nests and woo
In the fields of clover bright with dew;
And far above, on fluttering wing,

They warble their joyous songs of Spring.

Mingled sounds of gladness fill the air,
And the broidered sward is fresh and fair;
The bursting bud and the leafy tree
Have a thousand nameless charms to me.

The fields I plough and the seeds I sow,
And nursed by the sun the harvests grow;
My roses of health, above all price,
Can never bloom in the haunts of vice.

Let others boast of their wit and lore,
My learning is drawn from Nature's store;
The skylarks up from the meadows spring,
And sweetly teach me the way to sing.

Let Fashion's slaves in the town rejoice,
The peasant's life is my blissful choice,
Where Mind is led from the flowery sod,
Through Nature away to Nature's God.

The Peasant's Song of Summer.

NOW tripping along through morning dew,

Blithe Summer comes with a rosy hue;

To greet her, the hills their voices raise,
And the woodland songsters hymn her praise.

Like her sister Spring, when lately seen,
She's dressed in a vernal robe of green;
And her flowing skirt that Nature weaves
Is broidered o'er with flowers and leaves.

On her head a fragrant wreath she wears,
And her hand a golden sceptre bears;
Like some beauteous queen, with regal pride
She scatters her blessings far and wide.

She passes on with an air of grace,

And roses blush on her bonnie face;

She smiles on fields, and they greener grow;
She breathes on flowers, and they brighter glow.

Her reign is sweet, yet anon so wild,
She is wanton as a playful child;

She unbinds the winds that howling sweep,
And lash the waves of the surging deep.

Oh! she tears the misty veil away

From the mountain's brow where lambkins play. And the tainted air she purifies

With her flashing lightning from the skies.

She gives her scents to the passing breeze,
And ripens the fruit on bending trees;
She points to the fields of golden grain,
Which tell that labor is not in vain.

Where the humming bees in blooming dells.
Sweet honey sip for their waxen cells,
The sun may scorch, but she nightly showers
Her gentle dews on the drooping flowers.

Where the peasants mow on yonder lea,
There are mingled sounds of social glee;
They laugh and sing, and they toil away,
And of withered grass make russet hay.

While sets the sun in an opal sky,

Away to their cottage homes they hie,
And the smiles of Peace aye meet them there,

And the day is closed with grateful prayer.

I love the fields, and to Nature's shrine
My heart still clings like a clasping vine;
With bliss so pure, and with joys so rife,
Oh! give me the peasant's happy life!

The Peasant's Song of Autumn.

THE

HE winds sweep by with a mournful tone, Telling that Summer is past and gone; The leaves are sere, and genial showers No vigor give to the fading flowers.

There's a withered look in Nature's face,
And her steps have lost their vernal grace;
But what though she seems so pale and wan,
She's rich with stores for the wants of man.

Though heaving woods toss their russet plumes,
And the fragrant dells are strewn with blooms,
To the peasant bounteous Autumn yields
The treasures of all her golden fields.

Though no more the groves and forests ring
With the notes of rapture wild birds sing,
Afar on the moorland breeze are borne
The stirring sounds of the hunter's horn.

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