Poetry Archives

If you are merry, sing away,
And touch the organs sweet;
This is the Lord’s triumphant day,
Ye children in the gall’ries gay,
Shout from each goodly seat.

It shall be May to-morrow’s morn,
A field then let us run,
And deck us in the blooming thorn,
Soon as the cock begins to warn,
And long before the sun.

—I give the praise to Christ alone,
My pinks already show;
And my streak’d roses fully blown,
The sweetness of the Lord make known,
And to His glory grow.

Ye little prattlers that repair
For cowslips in the mead,
Of those exulting colts beware,
But blythe security is there,
Where skipping lambkins feed.

With white and crimson laughs the sky,
With birds the hedge-rows ring;
To give the praise to God most high,
And all the sulky fiends defy,
Is a most joyful thing.