Classic Poem

'Tis the charming month of July,
When one's thoughts become unruly,
Swelt'ring in the breathless town,
Chain'd to desk or counter down,
Sighing for the balmy breeze,
Dreaming of the leafy trees,
Gurgling stream and shady dell,
Rose and lily, cup and bell,
Broomy glen and heathy hill,
Nature tranquil, lone, and still; —
All before the fancy rise
In such dear attractive guise,
That, by wives and children kiss'd,
We no longer can resist;
Let the world wag as it may,
We must have one joyous day.

Now we mount our roomy car,
Noisy merry group we are;
Uncles, aunts, mammas, and pa's,
Boys in ducks, and girls in gauze,
Faces broader far than long,
Voices screaming joke and song;
Neighing steeds, with steel-clad feet,
Dash along the ringing street,
Whirling wheel and cracking whip,
" High! yo, yo! " and " High! yo, hup! "
Off we fly, fleet, fleet as wind,
Now we leave the town behind,
Now inhale the bracing air,
Onward to the village fair,
Ploughman's race, and whipman's play;
Jocund, joyous holiday!

On through hedgerows bright with bloom,
Spreading far their sweet perfume;
On through clachans, where a score
Urchins burst from every door,
Ducklings quack and chickens chick,
Wondering gossips gather thick;
Onward headlong, fearless, dash,
Let us raise the country clash,
Dash up height, and roll down steep,
Laugh at ruts and ravines deep.
Ringing through the welkin clear,
Drums and trumpets meet the ear,
Horse and foot the road hath cramm'd,
Now our lagging wheels get jamm'd,
Now the happy scene we near,
See the village spire appear.

Thick and thicker grows the throng,
Sweeping like a flood along,
Horse and filly, cart and car,
'Gainst each other jolt and jar;
Muirland herdsmen onward stalk,
This day's wonder all their talk,
Lovers arming onward press,
Reckless of their tussled dress,
Bairnies toddle, gaily chattering,
Housewives hobble, loudly clattering,
Grey-haired sires move slowly on,
Dreaming of like days long gone;
All the country far and near,
Old and young are crowding here,
This is labour's holiday,
All are blythe and all are gay.

Now we reach the village green,
Centre of the lively scene,
Tent and table, cart and stall,
Furnish tempting fare for all;
Gill-stoups clatter, bottles rattle,
Lovers whisper, gossips tattle;
Some are singing, some are joking,
Some are swigging, some are smoking,
Some are waxing wondrous jolly,
Some intent on roley-poley,
Sweety venders, gingebread huxters,
Pie, and tart, and biscuit baxters,
Stucco cats, and dogs, and polls,
Wooden horses, carts, and dolls,
Toys and dress in great variety,
Meats and drinks that brave satiety.

Hark! the sound of trump and drum,
Now the mounted whipmen come;
How their broad-hoofed steeds are prancing,
How their gilded flags are glancing,
How their silks and ribbons rustle,
How thick crowds around them bustle,
How they start, with stately pace,
Onward in th' inspiring race, —
Mighty prize! a new cart saddle.
How their horses fling and straddle,
Heaving divots far on high,
Shaking hoofs against the sky;
Merry shouts the victor cheer,
See his huge steed bound and rear,
While he gets his glorious prize
'Mid a thousand starry eyes.
Putting, wrestling, leaping, running,
Dancing, fiddling, drinking, funning,
Boist'rous mirth and jocund song
Burst spontaneous from the throng;
Games are played among your feet,
Reels are bobbit in the street,
Every victor feels more glorious,
Every tent grows more uproarious,
Still the louder, still the longer,
Still the weaker, still the stronger,
Till the night is far gone through,
And the tent lights glimmer blue,
When, in aiming for the road,
Many reeling press the sod,
And we homeward wheel our way,
Dreaming of the whipmen's play.