Young randy lovers may praise the Spring-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; But this be the time ver to dance and sing Riddle cum Ruddle! Riddle cum Ruddle! Riddle cum Ruddle! The harvest’s whoam! GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN The golden fields wheel round-- Their spokes, green hedges; And at the galloping sound Of the train, from watery sedges Arise familiar birds. Pools brown, and blue, and green, Criss-crossed with shadows, Flash by, and in between Gloucestershire meadows Lie speckled red with herds. A little flying farm, With humped grey back Against the rays that warm To gold a last-year stack, Like a friendly cat appears; And so through gloom and gleam Continues dwindling, While in my heart a dream Of home awakes to kindling Fire, and falling tears. LASSINGTON To Lassington the priests went out From Gloucester long ago To worship oaks and fool about With mistletoe. Now after twenty centuries Still men and girls do go Lassington way. To worship trees? You ask,--ah no! They laugh the magic boughs beneath, Catch hands, and kiss the while: And the dead Druids grind their teeth Below, or smile To see (ah, fair beneath the bough The fretted moonlight lies!) How readily come the victims now To sacrifice. How, robed in moonlight’s ancient gold, Another god doth reign, Tormenting men as did their old Grey gods of Pain. JEALOUSY On Zunday marn dro’ varmer’s wheat I zeed the print and track o’ veet: If I’d a had a rook-gun then They vaur veet would’n a walked again. Two on ’em--they o’ the larger zize-- I coulden praperly reckernize. Two wer the purty-printed veet O’ Molly--zo valse as she be sweet. I hadn’t no bird-gun: zo it fell As I maun laugh--ho, ho!--and tell Here in a pub at the end o’ the street O’ the winding--ha! ha!--o’ they vaur veet. But may the zoul o’ him as wore They hob-nails roast vor evermore; And the veet wi’ the instep’s purty curve May both on ’em get what um deserve! ELVERS Up the Severn River from Lent to Eastertide Millions and millions of slithy elvers glide, Millions, billions of glassy bright Little wormy fish, Chewed-string fish, Slithery dithery fish, In the dead of the night. Up the gleaming river miles and miles along Lanterns burn yellow: old joke and song Echo as fishermen dip down a slight Wide frail net, Gauzy white net, Strong long net In the water bright. From the Severn river at daybreak come Hundreds of happy fishermen home With bags full of elvers: perhaps that’s why We all love Lent, Lean mean Lent, Fishy old Lent, When the elvers fry.