  Ancient Cornish name: Jewel for the month: Emerald. Discovers false friends. Lo, the young month comes, all smiling, up this way. The Irish say that fire and salt are the two most sacred things given to man, and if you give them away on May Day you give away your luck for the year. The fair maid, who, the first of May, It is unlucky to go on the water the first Monday in May. Irish saying. Whoever is ill in the month of May, Leave cropping from May The last year's leaf, its time is brief Upon the beechen spray; The green bud springs, the young bird sings, Old leaf, make room for May: Begone, fly away, Make room for May. Oh, green bud, smile on me awhile; Oh, young bird, let me stay: What joy have we, old leaf, in thee? Make room, make room for May: Begone, fly away, Make room for May. Henry Taylor. There are twelve months in all the year, As I hear many say, But the merriest month in all the year Is the merry month of May. They who bathe in May Yorkshire. Come listen awhile to what we shall say, Concerning the season, the month we call May; For the flowers they are springing, and the birds they do sing, And the baziers (auriculas) are sweet in the morning of May. When the trees are in bloom, and the meadows are green, The sweet smiling cowslips are plain to be seen; The sweet ties of Nature, which we plainly do see, For the baziers are sweet in the morning of May. Lancashire. Summer is near, and buttercups blow, And sunshine glimmers aloft; And winds play tunes which merrily flow, Though in melody mellow and soft; Then sing the song of the green spring-time, The season of promise and bloom, When buds have birth, and the gladdened earth Awakes from her wintry tomb. Hogg. Flowery May, who from her green lap throws Milton. Of Gardens. In May and June come pinks of all sorts, especially the blush pink; roses of all kinds, except the musk which comes later; honeysuckles, strawberries, bugloss, columbine, the French marigold, flos Africanus, cherry tree in fruit, ribes, figs in fruit, rasps, vine flowers, lavender in flowers, the sweet satyrian (orchis) with the white flower, herba muscaria (grape hyacinth), lilium convallium, the apple tree in blossom. Bacon. A lovely morn, so still, so very still, It hardly seems a growing day of Spring, Though all the odorous buds are blossoming, And the small matin birds were glad and shrill Some hours ago; but now the woodland rill Murmurs along, the only vocal thing, Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing, And cons by fits and bits her evening trill. Hartley Coleridge. If you sweep the house with blossomed broom in May, You're sure to sweep the head of the house away. Come out of doors! 'tis Spring! 'tis May! W. Barnes. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward: but all else of Heaven was pure Up to the sun, and May from verge to verge. Tennyson. Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, And stops, as ill-contented with her note; Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing, Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. Jean Ingelow. Dark winter is waning, Its beauty in May. The wild woods are ringing To flowret and spray. The sunshine entrances Through greenwood so gay. From Celtic Lyre. Old May Day. (May 11th.) On! what a May-day—what a dear May-day! Feel what a breeze, love, Hear how they ask us; "Come and sit down." From Venetian. (Burrati.) Old May Day is the usual time for turning out cattle into the pastures, though frequently then very bare of grass. Hone. The three most unpopular saints in the calender are Pancratius, Servatius, and Bonifacius, known both in Germany and Austria as Who shears his sheep before St. Gervatius' (or Servatius') Day loves more his wool than his sheep. When the corn is over the crow's back the frost is over. Cheshire. Go and look at oats in May, The oak before the ash, Dorset. A windy May makes a fair year. Cut thistles in May, In the middle of May comes the tail of the winter. France. When passing o'er this streamlet, One fragrant morn in May, The meadows, wet with dewdrops, Shone bright at dawn of day; The crimson-breasted robin Was pouring forth his lay; The cuckoo's note of gladness Arose from scented spray. The mavis warbles loudly From yonder leafy tree; The wren now joins the chorus, And chirps aloud with glee; The linnet is preparing While black-cocks greet their partners With cooing soft and low. From Celtic Lyre. May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights. Among East Coast folk there is a pretty belief, very widely held, that in May, when the sea-fowl are hatching out on the saltings, Providence checks the spring tides so that they do not rise high enough to interfere with the birds. These they call by the appropriate name of "bird tides." The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, Wordsworth. The starlings are come! and merry May, And June, and the whitethorn and the hay, And the violet, and then the rose, and all sweet things are coming. He that would live for aye A dry May and a dripping June Bedford. Hawthorn bloom and elder flowers Warwick. The Simplers. (XVIIth. Century.) Here's pennyroyal and marigolds! Lazy cattle wading in the water Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold. Whitcomb Riley. When the dimpled water slippeth, Full of laughter on its way, And her wing the wagtail dippeth, Running by the brink at play; When the poplar leaves atremble Turn their edges to the light, And the far-off clouds resemble Veils of gauze most clear and white; And the sunbeams fall and flatter Woodland moss and branches brown, And the glossy finches chatter Though the heart be not attending, Having music of her own, On the grass, through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone. Jean Ingelow. Moonwort. There is a herb, some say, whose virtue's such It in the pasture, only with a touch, Unshods the new-shod steed. Withers. Wood-Pigeon. "Coo-pe-coo, Notts. The pigeon never knoweth woe, Old couplet. If you scare the flycatcher away, Somerset. May 29th, yack-bob day. Westmorland. May, thou month of rosy beauty, Leigh Hunt. When clamour that doves in the lindens keep Andrew Lang. Oh! come quickly, show thee soon; Leigh Hunt. |
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