On the burnt wings of mid-day zephyrs come,-- Urging each lown to leave his sports in fear, To stop his starting cows that dread the fly; Droning unwelcome tidings on his ear, That the sweet peace of rural morn's gone by. _Song_ One gloomy eve I roamed about Neath Oxey's hazel bowers, While timid hares were darting out, To crop the dewy flowers; And soothing was the scene to me, Right pleased was my soul, My breast was calm as summer's sea When waves forget to roll. But short was even's placid smile, My startled soul to charm, When Nelly lightly skipt the stile, With milk-pail on her arm: One careless look on me she flung, As bright as parting day; And like a hawk from covert sprung, It pounced my peace away. _The Cross Roads; or, The Haymaker's Story_ Stopt by the storm, that long in sullen black From the south-west stained its encroaching track, Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide, Sought the grey willows by the pasture-side; And there, while big drops bow the grassy stems, And bleb the withering hay with pearly gems, Dimple the brook, and patter in the leaves, The song or tale an hour's restraint relieves. And while the old dames gossip at their ease, And pinch the snuff-box empty by degrees, The young ones join in love's delightful themes, Truths told by gipsies, and expounded dreams; And mutter things kept secrets from the rest, As sweethearts' names, and whom they love the best; And dazzling ribbons they delight to show, And last new favours of some veigling beau, Who with such treachery tries their hearts to move, And, like the highest, bribes the maidens' love. The old dames, jealous of their whispered praise, Throw in their hints of man's deluding ways; And one, to give her counsels more effect, And by example illustrate the fact Of innocence oercome by flattering man, Thrice tapped her box, and pinched, and thus began. "Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie, Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by; I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't, And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't: Ye need not giggle underneath your hat, Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that; So keep ye quiet till my story's told, And don't despise your betters cause they're old.