HAWTHORN. f>7 
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, 
Else in the unknown meads. 
And buttercups are weighing, love. 
The gold they soon must strow— 
Where we will go a-Maymg, 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. 
GOING A-MAYING. 
ELIZA COOK. 
My own land ! my own land ! where freedom finds her 
throne-land ; 
Fair thou art, and rare thou art, to every true-born 
son. 
3* 
