Haymaking

'Tis haytime and the red-complexioned sun Was scarcely up ere blackbirds had begun Along the meadow hedges here and there To sing loud songs to the sweet-smelling air Where breath of flowers and grass and happy cow Fling o'er one's senses streams of fragrance now while in some pleasant nook the swain and maid Lean o'er their rakes and loiter in the shade Or bend a minute o'er the bridge and throw Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below —Hark at that happy shout—and song between 'Tis pleasure's birthday in her meadow scene. What joy seems half so rich from pleasure won As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun?