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GUEST,Rob McCausland Tune Req: Eliza Cook, 'A Summer Sketch' (Tis June) (3) Tune Req: Eliza Cook, 'A Summer Sketch' (Tis June) 01 Jun 13

I have a fragment of an a capella rendition of this poem by Eliza Cook taped off Boston folk radio probably back in the mid-80's. It's a male chorus, British, I think, maybe 3 voices, sounding a little like Swan Arcade. Can anyone tell me who the performers are, and if a recording is presently available? Thanks! The full poem is below; as sung, the last 3 verses are dropped in favor of a repeat of the fist verse.

"A Summer Sketch" by Eliza Cook

Tis June, 'tis merry, sniiling Juno,
'Tis blushing Summer now ;
The rose is red the bloom is dead
The fruit is on the bough.

Flora, with Ceres, hand in hand,
Bring all their smiling train ;
The yellow corn is waving high,
To gild the earth again.

The bird-cage hangs upon the wall,
Amid the clustering vine ;
The rustic seat is in the porch,
Where honeysuckles twine.

The rosy, ragged urchins play
Beneath the glowing sky ;
They scoop the sand, or gaily chaso
The bee that buzzes by.

The household spaniel flings his length
Along the stone-paved hall ;
The panting sheep-dog seeks the spot
Where leafy shadows fall.

The petted kitten frisks among
The bean-flowers' fragrant maze ;
Or, basking, throws her dappled form
To court the warmest rays.

The opened casement, flinging wide,
Geraniums gives to view ;
With choicest posies ranged between,
Still wet with morning dew.

'Tis June, 'tis merry, laughing June,
There's not a cloud above ;
The air is still, o'er heath and hill,
The bulrush does not move.

The pensive willow bends to kiss
The stream so deep and clear ;
While dabbling ripples, gliding on,
Bring music to mine ear.

The mower whistles o'er his toil
The emerald grass must yield ;
The scythe is out, the swath is down,
There's incense in the field.

Oh ! how I love to calmly muse
In such an hour as this ;
To nurse the joy Creation gives,
In purity and bliss !

There is devotion in my soul
My lip can ne'er impart ;
3ut One above will deign to read
The tablet of my heart.

And if that heart should e'er neglect
The homage of its prayer,
Lead it to Nature's altar-piece,
'Twill always worship tnere.

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