HA W THORN. 
7 i 
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 ! mayest 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 ! 
When music from the feathered throng 
Breaks forth in merry marriage song, 
And mountain streamlets dash along, 
Like molten diamonds glancing ! 
Oh ! pleasant ’tis to scan the page, 
Rich with the theme of bygone age, 
When motley fool and learned sage, 
Brought garlands for the gay pole; 
When laugh and shout came ringing out 
From courtly knight and peasant lout, 
