All hail the bright, the rosy morn,

The first of blushing May,

While fragrant flowers the fields adorn.

And Nature smiles so gay.

Oh, what a joyous festival

To all the young and fair,

Who love to rove through verdant fields

And breathe the balmy air.

With rosy checks, and laughing eyes,

They hie to Nature's bowers,

While birds trill forth their sweetest lay,

To pluck the fairest flowers.

Now some have strayed to sit beneath

A grove of maples grey,

To twine their flowers into a wreath,

Or cull a sweet bouquet.

While one small group is seated round

A florid, mossy knoll,

And laughing lisp that they have found

The sweetest flowers of all.

With bouquets sweet, and garlands gay,

They homeward then repair,

In haste to join without delay

The pic-nic or the fair.

For times are not as they were wont

To be in years gone by,

When on the rural village green

They reared the May-pole high;

While gathered round a merry group

Of youths and maidens gay,

To crown some rosy rustic maid

The smiling Queen of May.