The lark's in the sky, love, The flowers on the lea, The whitethorn's in bloom, love, To please thee and me; 'Neath its shade we can rest, love, And sit on the hill, And as last we met, love, Enjoy the Spring still. The Spring is for lovers, The Spring is for joy: O'er the moor, where the plovers Whirr, startled, and cry, We'll seek the white hawthorn, love, And sit on the hill; In the sweet sunny morn, love, We'll be lovers still; Where the partridge is craking From morning to e'en, In the wheat lands awaking, The sprouts young and green, Where the brook dribbles past, love, Down the willowy glen, And as we met last, love, Be lovers again. The lark's in the grass, love, A-building her nest; And the brook's running fast, love, 'Neath the carrion-crow's nest: There the wild woodbines twine, love; And, till the day's gone, Sun's set, and stars shine, love, I'll call thee my own. THE OLD YEAR The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day, Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark, or place, In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none. All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he. He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all. Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS MAYING; OR, A LOVE OF FLOWERS Upon a day, a merry day, When summer in her best, Like Sunday belles, prepares for play, And joins each merry guest, A maid, as wild as is a bird That never knew a cage, Went out her parents' kine to herd, And Jocky, as her page, Must needs go join her merry toils; A silly shepherd he, And little thought the aching broils That in his heart would be; For he as yet knew nought of love, And nought of love knew she; Yet without learning love can move The wildest to agree. The wind, enamoured of the maid, Around her drapery swims, And moulds in luscious masquerade Her lovely shape and limbs. Smith's "Venus stealing Cupid's bow" In marble hides as fine; But hers were life and soul, whose glow Makes meaner things divine. In sooth she was a lovely toy-- A worship-moving thing As ever brought the season joy, Or beautified the Spring; So sweet a thing no heart might hurt, Gay as a butterfly; Tho' Cupid chased 'twas half in sport-- He meant not to destroy.