Poems (Cook)/Lady June

by Eliza Cook

LADY JUNE.

Here she comes with broider'd kirtle; here she is the Lady June,
Singing, like a ballad minstrel, many a gay and laughing tune.
Let us see what she is dress'd in—let us learn the "mode" she brings—
For maiden never look'd so lovely, though she wear but simple things.

See, her robe is richly woven of the greenest forest leaves,
With full bows of honeysuckle looping up the flowing sleeves.
See, the fragrant marsh-flag plaited forms her yellow tassell'd sash,
With the diamond studs upon it, flung there by the river splash,
See her flounces—widely swelling, as the Zephyr's wings go past—
Made of roses, with the woodbine's perfumed thread to stitch them fast.
See the foxglove's bell of crimson and the poppy's scarlet bud
'Mid her tresses, bright and vivid as the sunset's ruby scud.
See the fresh and luscious bouquet that she scatters in her way;
It is nothing but a handful she has snatch'd of new-mown hay.
See, her garments have been fashion'd by a free and simple hand;
But tell me, have you seen a lady look more beautiful and grand?

Yon old man has quite forgotten what his errand was, I ween;
As he stares with listless pleasure on her garment-folds of green.
Busy dealers pause a moment in their hurry after gain;
Thinking there is something joyous in her trolling carol strain.
Youths and maidens track her closely, till their footsteps blithely mingle,
In the field and by the streamlet, up the hill and through the dingle:
Children fondly gather round her, prying into leaf and blossom,
Pilfering, with tiny fingers, jewels from her very bosom.

Here she comes with fairy footsteps, chanting ever as she runs,
Ditty words that soothe the mournful, and enchant the happy ones:
Here she comes with broider'd kirtle, and we'll list what Lady June
May be telling out so sweetly, in that merry dancing tune.

the song of june.

Oh! come with me, whoever ye be,
 Come from the palace, and come from the cot;
The strong and the hale-the poor and the pale—
 Ah! sad is the spirit that follows me not.

Old December lighted his pyre,
 And beckon'd ye in to the altar blaze;
He hung up his mistletoe over the fire,
 And press'd soft lips upon Christmas days.

Ye welcomed him with his eyes so dim,
 But I know ye have more love for me,
When I wander about, and whistle ye out
 With my blackbird pipers in every tree.

Oh! come from the town, and let us go down
 To the rivulet's mossy and osier'd brink;
'Tis pleasant to note the lily queen float;
 The gadfly skim, and the dappled kine drink.

Oh! let us away where the ringdoves play,
 By the skirts of the wood in the peaceful shade;
And there we can count the squirrels that mount,
 And the flocks that browse on the distant glade.

And if we should stay till the farewell of day,
 Its parting shall be with such lingering smile,
That the western light, as it greeteth the night,
 Will be caught by the castern ray peeping the while.

Little ones, come with your chattering hum,
 And the bee and the bird will be jealous full soon;
For no music is heard like the echoing word
 Of a child, as it treads 'mid the flowers of June.

Ye who are born to be weary and worn
 With labour or sorrow, with passion or pain,
Come out for an hour, there's balm in my bower,
 To lighten and burnish your tear-rusted chain.

Oh! come with me, wherever you be,
 And Beauty and Love on your spirits shall fall;
The rich and the hale, the poor and the pale,
 For Lady June scatters her joys for all.