Tis Autumn—golden Harvest crown’d

’Tis Autumn—golden Harvest crown’d Upon his throne of sheaves sits smiling; The farmer’s feast goes gaily round, His summer’s ardent toils beguiling: When tired of the world’s bustling scene, I seek the flowery fields again, To snatch a pleasant holiday Before their lustre die away; To tread once more by rural Tyne A pilgrimage to Baldred’s shrine; Another votive wreath to shed, Like hapless poet’s, soon to fade!