To the Tune of, The happy clown.
IT was the charming month of May
When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay,
One morning by the break of day,
Sweet Chloe, chaste and fair,
From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o’er the flowry mead she goes,
To breath a purer air.
Her looks so sweet, so gay her mein,
Her handsome shape and dress so clean,
She lookt all o’er like beauties queen,
Drest in her best aray.
The gentle winds, and purling stream
Essay’d to whisper Chloe’s name,
The savage beasts till then ne’er tame,
Wild adoration pay.
The feather’d people one might see,
Parch’d all around her on a tree,
With notes of sweetest melody
They act a cheerful part.
The dull slaves on the toilsome plow,
Their wearied necks and knees do bow,
A glad subjection there they vow,
Το pay with all their heart.
The bleating flocks that then came by,
Soon as the charming nymph they spy,
They leave their hoarse and ruful cry,
And dance around the brooks.
The woods are glad, the meadows smile,
And Forth that foam’d, and roar’d ere while,
Glides calmly down as smooth as oil,
Thro’ all its charming crooks.
The finny squadrons are content,
To leave their wat’ry element,
In glazie numbers down they bent,
They flutter all along.
The insects, and each creeping thing,
Join’d to make up the rural ring,
All frisk and dance, if she but sing,
And make a jovial throng.
Kind Phœbus now began to rise,
And paint with red the eastern skies,
Struck with the glory of her eyes,
He shrinks behind a cloud.
Her mantle on a bough she lays,
And all her glory she displays,
She left all nature in amaze,
And skip’d into the wood.
– Authors Unknown.