AUTUMN
.
BY
MR.
BREREWOOD
.
THO'
the
seasons
must
alter
,
ah
!
yet
let
me
find
What
all
must
confess
to
be
rare
,
A
female
still
cheerful
,
and
faithful
and
kind
,
The
blessings
of
autumn
to
share
.
Let
one
side
of
our
cottage
,
a
flourishing
vine
Overspread
with
its
branches
,
and
shade
;
Whose
clusters
appear
more
transparent
and
fine
,
As
its
leaves
are
beginning
to
fade
.
When
the
fruit
makes
the
branches
bend
down
with
its
load
,
In
our
orchard
surrounded
with
pales
:
In
a
bed
of
clean
straw
let
our
apples
be
stow'd
,
For
a
tart
that
in
winter
regales
.
When
the
vapours
that
rise
from
the
earth
in
the
morn
Seem
to
hang
on
its
surface
like
smoke
,
'Till
dispers'd
by
the
sun
that
gilds
over
the
corn
,
Within
doors
let
us
prattle
and
joke
.
But
when
we
see
clear
all
the
hues
of
the
leaves
,
And
at
work
in
the
fields
are
all
hands
,
Some
in
reaping
the
wheat
,
others
binding
the
sheaves
,
Let
us
carelesly
strole
o'er
the
lands
.
How
pleasing
the
sight
of
the
toiling
they
make
,
To
collect
what
kind
Nature
has
sent
!
Heaven
grant
we
may
not
of
their
labour
partake
;
But
,
oh
!
give
us
their
happy
content
.
And
sometimes
on
a
bank
,
under
shade
,
by
a
brook
,
Let
us
silently
sit
at
our
ease
,
And
there
gaze
on
the
stream
,
till
the
fish
on
the
hook
Struggles
hard
to
procure
its
release
.
And
now
when
the
husbandman
sings
harvest
home
,
And
the
corn's
all
got
into
the
house
;
When
the
long
wish'd
for
time
of
their
meeting
is
come
,
To
frolic
,
and
feast
,
and
carouse
:
When
the
leaves
from
the
trees
are
begun
to
be
shed
,
And
are
leaving
the
branches
all
bare
,
Either
strew'd
at
the
roots
,
shrivell'd
,
wither'd
,
and
dead
,
Or
else
blown
to
and
fro
in
the
air
;
When
the
ways
are
so
miry
,
that
bogs
they
might
seem
,
And
the
axle-tree's
ready
to
break
,
While
the
waggoner
whistles
in
stopping
his
team
,
And
then
claps
the
poor
jades
on
the
neck
;
In
the
morning
let's
follow
the
cry
of
the
hounds
,
Or
the
fearful
young
covey
beset
;
Which
,
tho'
skulking
in
stubble
and
weeds
on
the
grounds
,
Are
becoming
a
prey
to
the
net
.
Let's
enjoy
all
the
pleasure
retirement
affords
,
Still
amus'd
with
these
innocent
sports
,
Nor
once
envy
the
pomp
of
fine
ladies
and
lords
,
With
their
grand
entertainments
in
courts
.
In
the
evening
when
lovers
are
leaning
on
stiles
,
Deep
engag'd
in
some
amorous
chat
,
And
'tis
very
well
known
by
his
grin
,
and
her
smiles
,
What
they
both
have
a
mind
to
be
at
;
To
our
dwelling
,
tho'
homely
,
well-pleas'd
to
repair
,
Let
our
mutual
endearments
revive
,
And
let
no
single
action
,
or
look
,
but
declare
,
How
contented
and
happy
we
live
.
Should
ideas
arise
that
may
ruffle
the
soul
,
Let
soft
music
the
phantoms
remove
,
For
'tis
harmony
only
has
force
to
controul
,
And
unite
all
the
passions
in
love
.
With
her
eyes
but
half
open
,
her
cap
all
awry
,
When
the
lass
is
preparing
for
bed
;
And
the
sleepy
dull
clown
,
who
sits
nodding
just
by
,
Sometimes
rouzes
and
scratches
his
head
.
In
the
night
when
'tis
cloudy
and
rainy
,
and
dark
,
And
the
labourers
snore
as
they
lie
,
Not
a
noise
to
disturb
us
,
unless
a
dog
bark
In
the
farm
,
or
the
village
hard
by
.
At
the
time
of
sweet
rest
,
and
of
quiet
like
this
,
Ere
our
eyes
are
clos'd
up
in
their
lids
,
Let
us
welcome
the
season
,
and
taste
of
that
bliss
,
Which
the
sunshine
and
daylight
forbids
.