Morning

John Cunningham (1729–1773)

IN the barn the tenant cock,

Close to partlet perched on high,

Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock!)

Jocund that the morning’s nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain’s brow,

Shadows, nursed by night, retire:

And the peeping sunbeam now

Paints with gold the village spire.

Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night;

And the lark, to meet the morn,

Soars beyond the shepherd’s sight.

From the low-roofed cottage ridge,

See the chattering swallow spring;

Darting through the one-arched bridge,

Quick she dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree’s waving top

Gently greets the morning gale:

Kidlings now begin to crop

Daisies, on the dewy dale.

From the balmy sweets, uncloyed

(Restless till her task be done),

Now the busy bee ’s employed

Sipping dew before the sun.

Trickling through the creviced rock,

Where the limpid stream distils,

Sweet refreshment waits the flock

When ’t is sun-drove from the hills.

Colin ’s for the promised corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)

Anxious;—whilst the huntsman’s horn,

Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng,

On the white emblossomed spray!

Nature’s universal song

Echoes to the rising day.