Its primroses bloom when the barley is ripe,
Amid its red apples the nightingales pipe.
There often the shadow falls southward at noon,
And sunrise is hailed by the pale crescent moon,
The sun sets at will in the east or the west,
In the grove where the cuckoo is building her nest.
There the milkmaid sits down to the left of the cow,
In harvest they sow, and in haytime they plough;
While mowers, in attitudes gladsome and blythe,
Impossible antics perform with the scythe.