Amid the orchard, bending ’neath the load
That fair Pomona from her lap has strewn,
The busy husbandmen commence their tasks.
The red-cheeked apple, and the greening pale,
The golden-pippin, and the blue pearmain,
Baldwin and russet, all are toppled down,
And to the air a balmy fragrance give.
And there, the urchins playing all the while,
Select the choicest fruit for future use,
When the long winter night creeps o’er the hill,