And now the blossom of the village view, With airy hat of straw, and apron blue, And short-sleeved gown, that half to guess reveals By fine-turned arms what beauty it conceals; Whose cheeks health flushes with as sweet a red As that which stripes the woodbine oer her head; Deeply she blushes on her morn's employ, To prove the fondness of some passing boy, Who, with a smile that thrills her soul to view, Holds the gate open till she passes through, While turning nods beck thanks for kindness done, And looks--if looks could speak-proclaim her won. With well-scoured buckets on proceeds the maid, And drives her cows to milk beneath the shade, Where scarce a sunbeam to molest her steals-- Sweet as the thyme that blossoms where she kneels; And there oft scares the cooing amorous dove With her own favoured melodies of love. Snugly retired in yet dew-laden bowers, This sweetest specimen of rural flowers Displays, red glowing in the morning wind, The powers of health and nature when combined. Last on the road the cowboy careless swings, Leading tamed cattle in their tending strings, With shining tin to keep his dinner warm Swung at his back, or tucked beneath his arm; Whose sun-burnt skin, and cheeks chuffed out with fat, Are dyed as rusty as his napless hat. And others, driving loose their herds at will, Are now heard whooping up the pasture-hill; Peeled sticks they bear of hazel or of ash, The rib-marked hides of restless cows to thrash. In sloven garb appears each bawling boy, As fit and suiting to his rude employ; His shoes, worn down by many blundering treads, Oft show the tenants needing safer sheds: The pithy bunch of unripe nuts to seek, And crabs sun-reddened with a tempting cheek, From pasture hedges, daily puts to rack His tattered clothes, that scarcely screen the back,-- Daubed all about as if besmeared with blood, Stained with the berries of the brambly wood That stud the straggling briars as black as jet, Which, when his cattle lair, he runs to get; Or smaller kinds, as if beglossed with dew Shining dim-powdered with a downy blue, That on weak tendrils lowly creeping grow Where, choaked in flags and sedges, wandering slow, The brook purls simmering its declining tide Down the crooked boundings of the pasture-side. There they to hunt the luscious fruit delight, And dabbling keep within their charges' sight; Oft catching prickly struttles on their rout, And miller-thumbs and gudgeons driving out, Hid near the arched brig under many a stone That from its wall rude passing clowns have thrown. And while in peace cows eat, and chew their cuds, Moozing cool sheltered neath the skirting woods, To double uses they the hours convert, Turning the toils of labour into sport; Till morn's long streaking shadows lose their tails, And cooling winds swoon into faultering gales; And searching sunbeams warm and sultry creep, Waking the teazing insects from their sleep; And dreaded gadflies with their drowsy hum