Oh! come quickly, show thee soon; Come at once with all thy noon, Manly, joyous, gipsy June.
Ancient Cornish name: Miz-epham, summer month, or head of summer.
Jewel for the month: Agate. Long life, health, and prosperity.
When the white pinks begin to appear, Then is the time your sheep to shear.
Over the meadow, In sunshine and shadow, The meadow-larks trill and the bumble-bees drone.
If it raineth on the eighth of June a wet harvest men will see.
The broom having plenty of blossoms, or the walnut tree, is a sign of a fruitful year of corn.
Come away! The sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers! O'er the very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding beauty's glow-- Come away! Where the lily's tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream, Come away!
All the air is filled with sound, Soft and sultry, and profound; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray; Faint winds whisper as they pass: Come away! Where the bee's deep music swells From the trembling foxglove bells. Come away!
Pansies! Pansies! How I love you, pansies! Jaunty-faced, laughing-lipped, and dewy-eyed with glee.
The flower beds all were liberal of delight; Roses in heaps were there, both red and white, Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms, Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short, All the sweet cups to which the bees resort.
Oh! the rosy month of June I hail as summer's queen; The hills and valleys sing in joy, and all the woods are green; And streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are all in tune; And Nature smiles in summer's pride, in the rosy month of June. The sixth month of the year Is the month of June, When the weather's too hot to be borne, The master doth say, As he goes on his way, "To-morrow my sheep shall be shorn."
Here the rosebuds in June and the violets are blowing, The small birds they warble from every green bough; Here the pink and the lily, And the daffadowndilly, To adorn and perfume the sweet meadows in June; 'Tis all before the plough the fat oxen go slow; But the lads and the lasses to the sheep-shearing go.
Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods a' blushin' red; And there, wi' nunch es all a-spread, The hay-meakers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The rain, an' sky a-clearin'.