Ancient Cornish name:
Miz-guerda gala, white straw month.

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Jewel for the month: Chrysolite. Antidote to madness.

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If the woodcock had but the partridge's thigh,

He'd be the best bird that ever did fly.

If the partridge had but the woodcock's breast,

He'd be the best bird that ever was dress'd.

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Harvest Hwome.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear

O' stannen corn a-left out now,

Vor win' to blow or rain to drow;

'Tis all up seafe in barn or mow.

Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;

Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,

An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,

Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.

The happy zight,—the merry night;

The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

W. Barnes.

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We have ploughed, we have sowed,
We have reaped, we have mowed,
We have brought home every load,
Hip, hip, hip, Harvest Home.

Gloucester.

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Harvest Toast.

Here's a health to the barley mow,

Here's a health to the man who very well can

Both harrow and plough and sow.

When it is well sown,

See it is well mown,

Both raked and gravell'd clean,

And a barn to lay it in,

Here's a health to the man who very well can

Both thrash and fan it clean.

Suffolk.

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Tramping after grouse or partridge through the soft September air,

Both my pockets stuffed with cartridge, and my heart devoid of care.

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September blow soft.
Till the fruit's in the loft.

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Of Gardens.

In September come grapes, apples, poppies of all colours, peaches, melocotones (yellow peaches), nectarines, cornelians, wardens, quinces.

Bacon.

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Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,

And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended

In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;

But this is the harvest and the garnering season,

And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.

W. Morris.

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A bloom upon the apple tree when the apples are ripe

Is a sure termination to somebody's life.

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September dries up wells or breaks down bridges.

Portugal.

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Many haws, many sloes, many cold toes.

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When September thirteenth falls on a Friday, the Autumn will be dry and sunny.

France.

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September fifteenth is said to be fine in six years out of seven.

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Onion skin very thin,
Mild winter coming in;
Onion skin thick and tough,
Coming winter cold and rough.

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Set strawberries, wife,
I love them for life.

Tusser.

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The barberry, respis, and gooseberry too,
Look now to be planted as other things do:
The gooseberry, respis, and roses all three,
With strawberries under them trimly agree.

Tusser.

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Wild with the winds of September

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.

Longfellow.

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That mellow season of the year

When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves

Till they be gold, and with a broader sphere

The moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves.

Hood.

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When the falling waters utter
Something mournful on their way,
And departing swallows flutter,
Taking leave of bank and brae;
When the chaffinch idly sitteth
With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robin flitteth
Over beds of yellow leaves;
When the clouds like ghosts that ponder
Evil fate, float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander
Up and down, up and down:
Through the fields and fallows wending,
It is sad to walk alone.

Jean Ingelow.

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St. Matthew. (September 21st.)
St. Matthee shut up the bee.

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The flush of the landscape is o'er,

The brown leaves are shed on the way,

The dye of the lone mountain-flower

Grows wan and betokens decay.

All silent the song of the thrush,

Bewilder'd she cowers in the dale;

The blackbird sits lone on the bush—

The fall of the leaf they bewail.

Hogg.

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Summer is gone on swallow's wings,

And earth has buried all her flowers;

No more the lark, the linnet sings,

But silence sits in faded bowers.

There is a shadow on the plain

Of Winter, ere he comes again.

Hood.

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The feathers of the willow

Are half of them grown yellow

Above the swelling stream;

And ragged are the bushes,

And rusty now the rushes,

And wild the clouded gleam.

The thistle now is older,

His stalk begins to moulder,

His head is white as snow;

The branches all are barer,

The linnet's song is rarer,

The robin pipeth now.

Dixon.

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Nothing stirs the sunny silence,
Save the drowsy humming of the bees
Round the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,
And the south wind sighing in the trees,
And the dead leaves rustling as they fall:
While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,
All impatient to be on the wing,
And to wander from us, seeking
Their beloved Spring.

Adelaide Procter.

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The Garden.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head.
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine.
The nectarine, and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach.
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Andrew Marvell.

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St. Michael's Day. (September 29th.)

In the Sarum Missal St. Michael is invoked as a "most glorious and warlike prince," "chief officer of paradise," "captain of God's hosts," "the receiver of souls," "the vanquisher of evil spirits," and "the admirable general."

From Hone.

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If Michaelmas Day be fair, the sun will shine much in the winter; though the wind at northeast will frequently reign long, and be very sharp and nipping.

Thomas Passenger.

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Fresh herring plenty Michael brings,

With fatted crones (old ewes) and such old things.

Tusser.

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When the tenants come to pay their quarter's rent,

They bring some fowl at Midsummer, a dish of fish in Lent,

At Christmas a capon, at Michaelmas a goose,

And somewhat else at New Year's tide, for fear their lease fly loose.

G. Gascoigne.

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Geese now in their prime season are,
Which if well roasted are good fare:
Yet, however, friends take heed
How too much on them you feed,
Lest, when as your tongues run loose,
Your discourse do smell of goose.

"Poor Robin," 1695.

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If you eat goose on Michaelmas Day you will never want money all the year round.

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Old Saying.

The Michaelmas moon
Rises nine nights alike soon.

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The moon in the wane, gather fruit for to last;

But winter fruit gather, when Michael is past;

Though michers (thieves) that love not to buy nor to crave,

Make some gather sooner, else few for to have.

Tusser.

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