Shut out the sun--or to some threshing-floor. There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, He lightens annual toil, while merry ale Goes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praise The threadbare customs of his early days: How the high bowl was in the middle set At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met, Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swum The streaking sugar and the spotting plum. The maids could never to the table bring The bowl, without one rising from the ring To lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss, Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss. The large stone pitcher in its homely trim And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim, Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high Healths of the best the cellar could supply; While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes, Songs that were pictures of the good old times. Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail, Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale, And break it off,--for now the timid sheep, His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap, Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys, While others are brought in by sturdy boys. Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown aside Half the old forms simplicity supplied, Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare, Left like green ivy when the trees are bare. And now, when shearing of the flocks is done Some ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun, Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid, Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid, Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields, But such as every farmer’s garden yields-- Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face; The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace; The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers; The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers; The London tufts, of many a mottled hue; The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue; The white and purple gilliflowers, that stay Ling’ring, in blossom, summer half away; The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell, Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well; The columbine, stone-blue, or deep night-brown, Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down, Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child, Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild; With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass, And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass, And sprigs of lad’s-love--all familiar names, Which every garden through the village claims. These the maid gathers with a coy delight, And ties them up, in readiness for night; Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame, Her “clipping-posies” as his yearly claim. He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:-- With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,