5 6 
Ti-ie Hawthorn. 
chosen and crowned with flowers, and the day kept as a holi¬ 
day ; but this is only in remote villages, which old customs 
still haunt. In some parts of Cornwall, May-day sports are 
continued in almost their primitive fashion : the day is de¬ 
voted to out-of-doors enjoyment; and at Helston the youths 
and maidens cover themselves with the snowy wreaths of spring, 
and, preceded by the Oueen of the May, dance merrily through 
the houses, scattering flowers about them. 
Tennyson, in his “ May Queen ”—that beautiful poem which 
is said to have gained him the Laureateship — has immor¬ 
talized the memory of this fastly-fading custom. A favourite 
native singer, whose immense popularity might justly entitle 
her to claim the appellation of “ The Peoples’ Laureate,” has 
given her country these melodious, stirring lines on the “ Raising 
of the Maypole ” : 
‘ ‘ My own land ! my own land ! where freedom finds her throne-land; 
Fair thou art, and rare thou art, to every true-born son. 
Though no gold ore veins thee, though no grape-juice stains thee, 
We’ve harvest fields, and quartered shields, well kept and nobly wen. 
And we have pleasant tales to tell, 
And spot in many a native dell, 
Which we may prize and love as well 
As Troubadour his story. 
The lilting troll and roundelay 
Will never, never pass away, 
That welcomed in the herald day 
Of Summer’s rosy glory. 
And goodly sight of mirth and might. 
In blood that gained us Cressy’s fight, 
Was hearts and eyes, all warm and bright 
About the high and gay pole; 
When flower bedight, ’mid leaves and light, 
Shouts echoed — as it reared upright— 
Of ‘ Hurrah for merry England, and the raising of the Maypole! 
When the good old times had carol rhymes, 
With morris games and village chimes; 
When clown and priest shared cup and feast, 
And the greatest jostled with the least, 
At the * raising of the Maypole ! ’ 
My brave land ! my brave land! oh ! may’st thou be my grave-land; 
For firm and fond will be the bond that ties my heart to thee. 
When Summer’s beams are glowing, when Autumn’s gusts are blowing. 
When Winter’s clouds are snowing, thou art still right dear to me. 
But yet, methinks, I love thee best 
When bees are nurst on whitethorn breast, 
When Spring-tide pours in, sweet and blest, 
And joy and hope come dancing ! 
