THE KING OF THE MAY. 



There's a little bird down in the willows, 

 Where the brook leaps over the hill 

 And stops to loiter a moment 

 Before gliding onto the mill. 



A touch of summer sweetness, 

 In green and black and gold ; 

 He sings with wondrous power 

 As the season's buds unfold. 



'Tis a bubbling song of rejoicing, 

 Tuned true to the harp of spring, 

 Flowing out with a joyous madness 

 From a heart that leaps and sings. 



Out from the willow's darkness, 

 From their golden-green twilight dim, 

 To a low swinging spray o'er the water, 

 Glides the sprite in suit so trim. 



Green above as the willows, 

 With breast like the sunset's gold, 

 And band of black as deep and strong 

 As the tide in the night hour's cold. 



Wichety-wichety-wichety, 

 In a tone both bold and sweet, 

 Rings clear on the wandering breezes 

 Where mountain and river meet. 



Yellow throat, voice of the spring-time, 

 Yellow throat, voice of the day; 

 Thou incarnate beam of God's sunshine, 

 We hail thee, our King of the May. 



James Stephen Compton. 



