Joanna Baillie (1762–1851)

THE CHOUGH and crow to roost are gone,

The owl sits on the tree,

The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,

Like infant charity.

The wild-fire dances on the fen,

The red star shades its ray;

Uprouse ye then, my merry men!

It is our opening day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,

And closed is every flower,

And winking tapers faintly peep

High from my lady’s bower;

Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken

Shrink on their murky way;

Uprouse ye then, my merry men!

It is our opening day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,

Nor roof nor latchèd door,

Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow

To bless a good man’s store;

Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,

And night is grown our day;

Uprouse ye then, my merry men!

And use it as ye may.