Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Twelve Brothers.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
244
The Twelve Brothers.
March, thou bully grim and gruff,
Ever grumbling, hoarse, and rough!
Always howling at the door
Of the rich man or the poor;
Screaming words that do not reach—
Words unlike our human speech.
Down the hollow chimney-bore,
Hark the raging tyrant's roar!
Beat not with thy sleety flail,
Or the keen lash of thy hail,
Infant Spring, that tender child,
Frightened when thou even smiled,
Cruel March, sir!
Ever grumbling, hoarse, and rough!
Always howling at the door
Of the rich man or the poor;
Screaming words that do not reach—
Words unlike our human speech.
Down the hollow chimney-bore,
Hark the raging tyrant's roar!
Beat not with thy sleety flail,
Or the keen lash of thy hail,
Infant Spring, that tender child,
Frightened when thou even smiled,
Cruel March, sir!
“Here is April!” cuckoo cries
From the tall tree near the skies;
“April! April!” croaks the frog
From his dank hole in the bog;
“April!” sings the thrush again
From his clay nest in the lane.
April, 't is thy merry weather
Makes the wild colt burst his tether;
April in his royal dower
Has soft sunbeam and sharp shower;
April is the very soul of youth,
Eye of love, and heart of truth.—
That is April.
From the tall tree near the skies;
“April! April!” croaks the frog
From his dank hole in the bog;
“April!” sings the thrush again
From his clay nest in the lane.
April, 't is thy merry weather
Makes the wild colt burst his tether;
April in his royal dower
Has soft sunbeam and sharp shower;
April is the very soul of youth,
Eye of love, and heart of truth.—
That is April.
May brings all the flowers at once,
Teased by rains and kissed by suns;
Now the meadow's white and gold;
Now the lambs leap in the fold.
May is wreathed with virgin white;
Glad May dances all the night;
May laughs, rolling 'mong the flowers,
Careless of the wintry hours.
May's storms turn to sunny rain,
And when Iris springs again
All the angels clap their hands,
Singing in their seraph bands.—
Such is May, boy.
Teased by rains and kissed by suns;
Now the meadow's white and gold;
Now the lambs leap in the fold.
May is wreathed with virgin white;
Glad May dances all the night;
May laughs, rolling 'mong the flowers,
Careless of the wintry hours.
May's storms turn to sunny rain,
And when Iris springs again
All the angels clap their hands,
Singing in their seraph bands.—
Such is May, boy.
June is crowned, for June is king
Of our woods and everything;
June's the Emperor of Love;
Green leaves wave, his throne above,
Leagues of roses at his feet
Spread so soft, and crimson sweet.
Like man's soul from out the grave,
Springs the lark above the wave
Of the green corn on the slope,
Teaching us to soar and hope.
Yes, June's king and lord of all,
Till the Summer roses fall.—
Kingly June, sir!
Of our woods and everything;
June's the Emperor of Love;
Green leaves wave, his throne above,
Leagues of roses at his feet
Spread so soft, and crimson sweet.
Like man's soul from out the grave,
Springs the lark above the wave
Of the green corn on the slope,
Teaching us to soar and hope.
Yes, June's king and lord of all,
Till the Summer roses fall.—
Kingly June, sir!
July, too, is rich and royal;
All the birds to him are loyal:
Still, as in the golden June,
All the air is song and tune.
Sluggard, heedless night or morn,
Muse not by the ripening corn,
Dreaming hours and hours away,
Beside the long and dusty way,
That leads unto the distant town,
Miles and miles across the down,
Smiling to hear the sheep-bell's chime
Toll for all thy lavished time.—
Lazy July!
All the birds to him are loyal:
Still, as in the golden June,
All the air is song and tune.
Sluggard, heedless night or morn,
Muse not by the ripening corn,
Dreaming hours and hours away,
Beside the long and dusty way,
That leads unto the distant town,
Miles and miles across the down,
Smiling to hear the sheep-bell's chime
Toll for all thy lavished time.—
Lazy July!
August! tell me, then, what is he?
He is red-faced and most busy:
See him there, with sickle keen,
Strut the bristling sheaves between,
Shouting to the reapers; then
Drawing from its shady den,
In his wallet, by the brook,
Big brown jar, and, gracious, look!
How he froths the mighty cup!
And how quick he drains it up!
Of the brothers twelve, this one
Bears the best the burning sun.—
Bravo, August!
He is red-faced and most busy:
See him there, with sickle keen,
Strut the bristling sheaves between,
Shouting to the reapers; then
Drawing from its shady den,
In his wallet, by the brook,
Big brown jar, and, gracious, look!
How he froths the mighty cup!
And how quick he drains it up!
Of the brothers twelve, this one
Bears the best the burning sun.—
Bravo, August!
245
“You must not forget September!”
Could I fail me to remember
That brave woodman, and his stroke
At the gnarled and iron oak?
Or his swift steel's circling flash,
Smiting at the stubborn ash,
While the pheasant's jewelled wing,
Like a firework you up-fling,
Flashes from the dying fern,
Where the brambles crimson burn?
That's September. Though he's old,
Little recks he of the cold.—
Brave September!
Could I fail me to remember
That brave woodman, and his stroke
At the gnarled and iron oak?
Or his swift steel's circling flash,
Smiting at the stubborn ash,
While the pheasant's jewelled wing,
Like a firework you up-fling,
Flashes from the dying fern,
Where the brambles crimson burn?
That's September. Though he's old,
Little recks he of the cold.—
Brave September!
“Curb your Pegasus! be sober!
Where is that strong man October?”
Bend those forest boughs aside,
And you'll see the fellow ride
Over brook and double rail,
Over turnpike-gate and pale;
Watch him breast the thorny brake
So his fiery way to make;
Hear his clear defiant horn
Set all coward churls at scorn.
That's October. How the deer
Tremble at his lusty cheer!—
Hail, October!
Where is that strong man October?”
Bend those forest boughs aside,
And you'll see the fellow ride
Over brook and double rail,
Over turnpike-gate and pale;
Watch him breast the thorny brake
So his fiery way to make;
Hear his clear defiant horn
Set all coward churls at scorn.
That's October. How the deer
Tremble at his lusty cheer!—
Hail, October!
Though I sorrow it to say,
November is a churl alway;
Miserly, beside the fire,
Just outside the echoing choir,
Sits he peevishly, and ponders
On this life and all its wonders,
Hearing through the grudging screen
Organ notes, that slip between
Prayers for dead men and dead hopes,
While the priests, in 'broidered copes,
Sing to heaven; yet not for him
Goes up the incense or the hymn.—
Fie, November!
November is a churl alway;
Miserly, beside the fire,
Just outside the echoing choir,
Sits he peevishly, and ponders
On this life and all its wonders,
Hearing through the grudging screen
Organ notes, that slip between
Prayers for dead men and dead hopes,
While the priests, in 'broidered copes,
Sing to heaven; yet not for him
Goes up the incense or the hymn.—
Fie, November!
Best of all, old King December,
Laughs beside the burning ember,
With his children round his knees,
And a look of jovial ease.
He is crowned Lord of Misrule—
Here's his Queen, and there's his fool.
He is wreathed with frosty green,
And ever the gay song between
“Wassail!” shouts he, “health to all!”
And re-echoes the old hall.—
Kind December!
Laughs beside the burning ember,
With his children round his knees,
And a look of jovial ease.
He is crowned Lord of Misrule—
Here's his Queen, and there's his fool.
He is wreathed with frosty green,
And ever the gay song between
“Wassail!” shouts he, “health to all!”
And re-echoes the old hall.—
Kind December!
January's old and stern,
Grudging every coal they burn;
He's a screw, and right ill stored
Is his larder and his board;
Hard of face and hard of heart—
See him hurry with a start
To bar angrily the door
In the mild face of the poor.
When he's cold upon his bier,
What lone watcher will be near
January?
Grudging every coal they burn;
He's a screw, and right ill stored
Is his larder and his board;
Hard of face and hard of heart—
See him hurry with a start
To bar angrily the door
In the mild face of the poor.
When he's cold upon his bier,
What lone watcher will be near
January?
February's a peevish wight—
Never cozy but at night:
Whining for the Winter gone,
Though the Spring is coming on.
Weeping underneath the tree,
Like a mute who earns his fee,
For the pleasure nights of Yule,
And the increased price of fuel.
Those may like him, they, who may—
I will never go thy way,
February!
Never cozy but at night:
Whining for the Winter gone,
Though the Spring is coming on.
Weeping underneath the tree,
Like a mute who earns his fee,
For the pleasure nights of Yule,
And the increased price of fuel.
Those may like him, they, who may—
I will never go thy way,
February!
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |