Now some have strayed to sit beneath
A grove of maples grey,
To twine their flowers into a wreath,
Or cull a sweet bouquet.

While one small group is seated round
A florid, mossy knoll,
And laughing lisp that they have found
The sweetest flowers of all.

With bouquets sweet, and garlands gay,
They homeward then repair,
In haste to join without delay
The pic-nic or the fair.

For times are not as they were wont
To be in years gone by,
When on the rural village green
They reared the May-pole high;

While gathered round a merry group
Of youths and maidens gay,
To crown some rosy rustic maid
The smiling Queen of May.




THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.