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Thine old familiar Maypole I may not, While brooding o'er thy varied scenes, forget, The village boast, envied by hamlets near. A vestige of the simple rural sports. Which ages far remote our fathers loved, Demands a notice by the village Muse. Oft have I seen it on a holiday Tall as the steeple rise, when Hawthorn's bloom Perfumed the gentle breeze, and wild flowers grew On each adjacent hill, the gift of May. Yes, I have seen it decked with garlands new, Platted or woven by the village maids, - Proud of the honour, emulous to aid The harmless purpose of the sterner sex, And give a graceful touch - 'tis woman's part - To that which pleases all and injures none, A rustic festival and social glee. I do remember when our village pole, Made ready for the rearing, was purloined, By envious clowns beneath the shades of night. 'Twas a vile theft, and indignation roused One common purpose to avenge the wrong. Old men at eighty ambled to their doors, Brandished their staff, and talked of village war, While aged dames came forth - for dames were then - And urged broad-shouldered men to seek redress. A youth of fifteen summers, I was one To join the band, with crab-tree cudgels armed, Which in pursuit of justice, simple, brief, Ransacked - but did not sack - a neighbouring town. The pole was found, and, grievances redressed, At the appointed hour in Whitsuntide, With more than wonted honours reared its head. |