A Medley of Weather Lore

JULY

Ancient Cornish name:
Miz-gorepham, head of the summer month.

Jewel for the month: Ruby. Discovers poison.

If the first of July be rainy weather,
'Twill rain more or less for four weeks together.

In my nostrils the summer wind
Blows the exquisite scent of the rose:
Oh! for the golden, golden wind,
Breaking the buds as it goes!
Breaking the buds and bending the grass,
And spilling the scent of the rose.

Aldrich.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The rose as where some buried CÆsar bled;
That every hyacinth the garden wears
Dropt in its lap from some once lovely head.

Omar Khayyam.

Of Gardens.

In July come gilliflowers of all varieties, musk
roses, the lime tree in blossom, early pears, and
plums in fruit, ginnetings, quadlins.

Bacon.

A tuft of evening primroses,

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers.

Keats.

Now the glories of the year
May be viewed at the best,
And the earth doth now appear
In her fairest garments dress'd:
Sweetly smelling plants and flowers
Do perfume the garden bowers;
Hill and valley, wood and field,
Mixed with pleasure profits yield.

George Withers.

Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,
Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!
Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,
Each in its way has not a fellow.

C. Rossetti.

Swelling downs, where sweet air stirs

Blue hair-bells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold.

Keats.

Mouse-ear, or Scorpion grass, any manner of way ministered to horses brings this help unto them, that they cannot be hurt, while the smith is shoeing of them, therefore it is called of many, herba clavorum, the herb of nails.

Old saying, before 1660.

Sweet is the Rose, but growes upon a brere;

Sweet is the Junipere, but sharp his bough;

Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;

Sweet is the Firbloome, but his braunche is rough;

Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough;

Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the Broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;

And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.

So every sweet with sowre is tempered still,

That maketh it the coveted be more:

For easie things, that may be got at will,

Most sorts of men doe set but little store.

Spenser.

Where the copse-wood is the greenest,
Where the fountain glistens sheenest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
There the lady fern grows strongest.

Walter Scott.

Faire Dayes: or, Dawnes Deceitful.

Faire was the Dawne; and but e'ene now the Skies

Shew'd like to Creame, enspir'd with Strawberries:

But on a sudden, all was chang'd and gone

That smil'd in that first sweet complexion.

Then Thunder-claps and Lightning did conspire

To teare the world, or set it all on fire.

What trust to things below, whenas we see,

As Men, the Heavens have their Hypocrisie?

Herrick.

Summer in the penniless can stir the frozen prayer,

Summer sends a golden glow through needy bones a-while;

Bright and breezy is the dawn, and soft the balmy air;

Summer, 'tis the breath of Heaven, 'tis God's own gracious smile.

From Victor Hugo.

The nightingale and the cuckow both grow hoarse at the rising of Sirius the dogge star.

Not rend off, but cut off ripe bean with a knife,

For hindering stalk of her vegetive life.

So gather the lowest, and leaving the top,

Shall teach thee a trick for to double thy crop.

Tusser.

A shower of rain in July, when the corn begins to fill,

Is worth a plough of oxen, and all belongs theretill.

St. Swithun. (July 15th.)

Saint Swithun's Day, if thou dost rain,
For forty days it will remain;
Saint Swithun's Day, if thou be fair,
For forty days 'twill rain na mair.

Scotland.

St. Swithun christens the apples.

No tempest good July,
Lest the corn look ruely.

While wormwood hath seed, get a handful or twain,

To save against March, to make flea to refrain:

Where chamber is sweepid, and wormwood is strown,

No flea for his life, dare abide to be known.

The Flower Girl.

Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers,

All ranged with due consideration,

And culled in fancy's fairy bowers,

To suit each age and every station.

For those who late in life would tarry,

I've snowdrops, winter's children cold;

And those who seek for wealth to marry,

May buy the flaunting marigold.

I've ragwort, ragged robins, too,

Cheap flowers for those of low condition;

For bachelors I've buttons blue;

And crown imperials for ambition.

For sportsmen keen, who range the lea,

I've pheasant's eye and sprigs of heather;

For courtiers with the supple knee,

I've parasites and prince's feather.

For thin tall fops I keep the rush,

For peasants still am nightshade weeding;

For rakes I've devil-in-the-bush,

For sighing strephons, loves-lies-bleeding.

But fairest blooms affection's hand

For constancy and worth disposes,

And gladly weaves at your command

A wreath of amaranths and roses.

Mrs. Corbold.

London Street-call. (About 200 years old.)

Will you buy, lady, buy
My sweet blooming lavender?
There are sixteen blue branches a penny.
You will buy it once, you will buy it twice,
It makes your clothes smell so very nice.
It will scent your pocket-handkerchief,
And it will scent your clothes as well.
Now is your time, and do not delay:
Come and buy your lavender,
All fresh cut from Mitcham every day.

I do not want change: I want the same old and loved things, the same wild flowers, the same trees and soft ash-green; the turtle doves, the blackbirds, the coloured yellow-hammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light to cast a shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, and I want them in the same place.

Richard Jefferies.

St. James's Day. (New Style. July 25th.)

'Till Saint James's Day be past and gone,
There may be hops, or there may be none.

Hereford.

July, to whom, the dog-star in her train,
St. James gives oisters, and St. Swithin rain.

Churchill.

Oh! golden, golden summer,

What is it thou hast done?

Thou hast chased each vernal roamer

With thy fiercely burning sun.

Glad was the cuckoo's hail.

Where may we hear it now?

Thou hast driven the nightingale

From the waving hawthorn bough.

Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;

Thou hast made the small brook flee;

And the light gales faintly quiver

Through the dark and shadowy tree.

W. Howitt.

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