Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding; Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding; There he sat ! "In the cottage yonder I was born; Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care: Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. It was summer, and we went to school, Dapper country lads and little maidens; Taught the motto of the " Dunce's Stool,' Its grave import still my fancy ladens, "Here's a fool!" It was summer, and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play, Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, O, to me her name was always Heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel ! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled ! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old. "I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted I have tottered here to look once more. "All the picture now to me how dear! E'en this gray old rock where I am seated, Is a jewel worth my journey here; Ah that such a scene must be completed All the picture now to me how dear! "Old stone school-house! it is still the same; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; In the cottage yonder I was born. Those two gateway sycamores you see. "There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb. "There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. "There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. "There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table; There's the gate on which I used to swing. Stay wherever you will, By the mount or under the hill, Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, Among the thickest hazels of the brake Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, And find him singing on the self-same bough (I know it even now) Where, since the flit of bat, In ceaseless voice he sat, Trying the spring night over, like a tune, And while I listed long, Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, I am warm with the summers that are not yet, Softly afloat on a sunny sca, From the backward shore to the shore before, A single self reposes, The nevermore with the evermore Above me mingles and closes; As a child that holds by his mother, But I'll leave my glory to woo her, And I shall not be denied. And you will love her, brother dear, And perhaps next year you 'll bring me here All through the balmy April tide, And she will trip like spring by my side, And be all the birds to my ear. And here all three we'll sit in the sun, Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its merriest day; wavy bowers, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet be Queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray; And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the they say: meadow-grass, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to And the happy stars above them seem to brighten be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day; And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and and garlands gay; still, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the be Queen o' the May. hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'll merrily | Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, To-night I saw the sun set, he set and left With your feet above my head in the long and behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll for give me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ; Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had You should not fret for me, mother you have If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, There's not a flower on all the hills, the frost And be often, often with you when you think And the swallow 'll come back again with sum- She 'll find my garden tools upon the granary mer o'er the wave, floor. ering grave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mould. Let her take 'em they are hers; I shall never garden more. |