Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying —
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out —
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I’m not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime —
Only lee long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time.
To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about —
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!
Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-finger’d girl;
What then — if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl?
My stomach is not ruled by other men’s,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
“Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs?”
Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
“To meet the sun upon the upland lawn”—
Well — he died young.
With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I’m no climbing boy, and need not be
“All up — all up!”
So here I’ll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon; —
A man that’s fond precociously of stirring,
Must be a spoon.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:55