The life of man is but a span,
It flourishes like a flower,
We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,
And we are dead in an hour.
The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,
A little before it is day,
So God bless you all, both great and small,
And send you a joyful May.
Milkmaids’ Garland on May-day.
In London, thirty years ago,
When pretty milkmaids went about,
It was a goodly sight to see
Their May-day Pageant all drawn out:—
Themselves in comely colours drest,
Their shining garland in the middle,
A pipe and tabor on before,
Or else the foot-inspiring fiddle.
They stopt at houses, where it was
Their custom to cry “milk below!”
And, while the music play’d, with smiles
Join’d hands, and pointed toe to toe.
Thus they tripp’d on, till—from the door
The hop’d-for annual present sent—
A signal came, to curtsy low,
And at that door cease merriment.
Such scenes, and sounds, once blest my eyes,
And charm’d my ears—but all have vanish’d!
On May-day, now, no garlands go,
For milk-maids, and their dance, are banish’d.