To Be Sung To The Tune Of "The Bonny Boat."

I.

O, blessed be this sweet May day, The fairest of the year; The birds are heard from every spray, And the blue sky shines so clear! White blossoms deck the apple tree, Blue violets the plain; Their fragrance tells the wand'ring bee That Spring is come again. We'll cull the blossoms from the bough Where robins gayly sing, We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king.

II.

The winter wind is bleak and sad, And chill the winter rain; But these May gales blow warm and glad, And charm the heart from pain. The sick, the poor rejoice once more, Pale cheeks resume their glow, And those who thought their day was o'er New life to May suns owe. And we, in youth and health so gay, Sheltered by love and care, How should we joy in blooming May, And bless its balmy air!

III.

We are the children of the Spring; Our home is always green; Green be the garland of our king, The livery of our queen. The gardener's care the seed has strown, To deck our home with flowers; Our Father's love from high has shone, And sent the needed showers. Barren indeed the plants must be, If they should not disclose, Tended and cherished with such toil, The lily and the rose.

IV.

Meanwhile through the wild wood we'll rove, Where earliest flowerets grow, And greet each simple bud with love, Which tells us what to do-- That, though untended, we may bloom And smile on all around, And one day rise from earth's low tomb, To live where light is found. A modest violet be our queen, Still fragrant, though alone, Our king a laurel--evergreen-- To which no blight is known.

V.

So let us bless the sweet May day, And pray the coming year May see us walk the upward way-- Minds earnest, conscience clear; That fruit Spring's amplest hope may crown, And every winged day Make to our hearts more dear, more known, The hope, the peace of May! So cull the blossoms from the bough Where birds so gayly sing; We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king.

CARADORI SINGING.

Let not the heart o'erladen hither fly, Hoping in tears to vent its misery: She soars not like the lark with eager cry, Not hers the robin's notes of love and joy; Nor, like the nightingale's love-descant, tells Her song the truths of the heart's hidden wells. Come, if thy soul be tranquil, and her voice Shall bid the tranquil lake laugh and rejoice; Shall lightly warble, flutter, hover, dance, And charm thee by its sportive elegance. A finished style the highest art has given, And a fine organ she received from heaven: But genius casts not here one living ray; Thou shalt approve, admire, not weep, to-day.