Song—in the Sheperdess of the Alps

In the month of May, The morning grey, Firsts peeps a doubtful light; Three strikes the clock, The village cock Next crows with all his might. Each waking bird, Chirping is heard; Tinges of red the sky adorn; Bird, man, and beast, Regard the east, And, pleas'd, salute the rising morn. The shepherd now his flock unfolds; Night, like a thief, steals slow away;

His dingy hue, Ugly to view, Is chang'd to a delightful blue; All nature's gay; And now the villager beholds, His mowers mow, his ploughers plough, Sheep bleat, birds sing, and oxen low: Each rural sound salutes his ears; He whistles to make one: And now, Usher'd by all this fine parade, In every splendid pomp array'd, Appears The radient sun. So, after abundance of toilet affairs, And Betty has nine times run up and down stairs, For lappets and ribbands, and one thing and t'other, And the house top and bottom's alarm'd with the pother. And a hundred things more are done equally risible, The lady, at last condescends to be visible.