7he Hawthorn. 
53 
May-day now arrives, the weather is mostly too inclement for 
outdoor sports. Many an old villager may yet be found 
lamenting the difference between the May-days of his youth 
and those of to-day: in some out-of-the-way rural districts, 
many years elapsed before folks submitted “ to lose twelve 
days out of their lives,” as they deemed it. 
In country places it was formerly the custom for lads and 
lasses to get up soon after midnight, and, accompanied by 
such music as the village afforded, to walk in a body to some 
neighbouring wood ; there they gathered as many branches 
and nosegays of flowers as they could carry, and then returned 
home about sunrise in joyous procession, garlanded with flowers, 
and laden with blossomy boughs, with which to decorate the 
doors and windows. Shakspeare did not fail to note the eager¬ 
ness with which May-day pastimes were looked forward to and 
indulged in in his days, and remarks : 
“ ’T is as much impossible, 
Unless we swept them from the door with cannons, 
To scatter ’em, as’t is to make ’em sleep 
On May-day morning. ” 
It has been seen how beautifully Herrick conjured his ladye- 
love to go a-Maying; and perhaps this more modern, though 
less worthy, invocation may be used here—not so much for its 
value as for its appropriateness : 
“Oh, we will go a-Maying, love, 
A-Maying we will go, 
Beneath the branches swaying, love, 
With weight of scented snow. 
Laburnums’ golden tresses, love, 
Float in the perfumed air; 
Which heedless their caresses, love, 
Seeks violets in their lair ; 
And with their scents a-playing, love, 
It gambols to and fro— 
Where we will go a-Maying, love, 
Where we will Maying go. 
*‘The bees are busy humming, love, 
Amid the opening blooms, 
Foretelling Summer’s coming, love— 
Farewell to wintry glooms. 
The primrose pale, from crinkly sheen, 
Up from the ground now speeds; 
And cowslips slim, ’mid leafy green, 
Rise in the unmown meads. 
And buttercups are weighing, love, 
The gold they soon must strow— 
Where we will go a-Maying, love, 
Where we will Maying go. 
“ The hawthorn’s bloom is falling, love, 
We must no longer wait; 
Each bird is blithely calling, love, 
Unto his chosen mate; 
Each bud unblown is swelling, love, 
Green grow the vernal fields; 
Each insect leaves its dwelling, love, 
And all to Summer yields: 
The mowers are out haying, love, 
Woodbine is in full blow— 
Where we will go a-Maying, love. 
Where we will Maying go.” 
John Ingram. 
