by John Cunningham
When the sweet rosy morning first peep'd from the skies.
A loud singing lark bade the villagers rise;
The cowslips were lively — the primroses gay,
And shed their best perfumes to welcome the May:
The swains and their sweethearts all rang'd on the green,
Did homage to Phaebe — and hail'd her their Queen.
Young Damon step'd forward: he sung in her praise,
And Phaebe bestow'd him a garland of bays:
May this wreath, said the fair one, dear Lord of my vows,
A crown for true merit, bloom long on thy brows:
The swains and their sweethearts that danc'd on the green,
Approv'd the fond present of Phaebe their Queen.
'Mongst lords and fine ladies, we shepherds are told,
The dearest affections are barter'd for gold;
That discord in wedlock is often their lot,
While Cupid and Hymen shake hands in a cot:
At the church with fair Phaebe since Damon has been,
He's rich as a Monarch — she's blest as a Queen.
Last updated September 05, 2017