May Day poems

I don't like May Day and I don't forgive the left-wing socialist Michael Foot for making May Day a bank holiday in the UK. A man who took money from the KGB. 

St George's Day/Shakespeare's birthday should be the holiday for England. 

In Romania King's Day (10 May) should be the holiday. King Carol I was crowned on 10 May 1881. 

Still May Day is not a socialist festival, unlike the baleful International Women's Day which the BBC promotes. 

Here is a poem that I read today for the first time by John Clare, a poet whom I have hardly read.

Now happy swains review the plains,
And hail the first of May;
Now linnets sing to welcome spring,
And every soul is gay.
Hob, joyful soul, high rears the pole,
With wild-flower wreaths entwin'd;
Then tiptoe round the maidens bound,
All sorrow lags behind.

I am ashamed to say that instead I loved this poem and recited it to myself aged about 13. My father had introduced me to Lord Tennyson (not in person). I see why I didn't fit in in my philistine, sporty lower middle class grammar school.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be; They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me? There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.