Ruttendell, I

When now (that morn) Aurora ope’d the course, And Sol strode forth, eight charmers bid discourse; Their firstling-notes, borne on the balmy breeze, Bestirr’d the rooks in the adjacent trees; “Ring, ting, ting, tong, this is our song,”—say they— To rouse ye sleepers for the holiday: A thousand flues erst wind their dingy smoke; Whilst children run, half nude, to have a look, And listen to the mimic guns as they Peal forth applausive of th’ auspicious day: The streets are now invaded by gay youths Prebent already on the comfit booths; And as the morning grows show signs of love Whilst sauntering through the artificial grove: The gentry-residents command the throng, And at the time appointed march along Towards the bound’ry, there (some frolicking) They ’wait th’ arrival of their local king.