SWEET AUTUMN DAYS.
Sweet Autumn days, sweet Autumn days,
When, harvest o’er, the reaper slumbers,
How gratefully I hymn your praise,
In modest but melodious numbers.
But if I’m ask’d why ’tis I make
Autumn the theme of inspiration,
I’ll tell the truth, and no mistake—
With Autumn comes the long vacation.
Of falsehoods I’ll not shield me with a tissue—
Autumn I love—because no writs then issue.
Others may hail the joys of Spring,
When birds and buds alike are growing;
Some the Summer days may sing,
When sowing, mowing, on are going.
Old Winter, with his hoary locks,
His frosty face and visage murky,
May suit some very jolly cocks,
Who like roast-beef, mince-pies, and turkey:
But give me Autumn—yes, I’m Autumn’s child—
For then—no declarations can be filed.