We don’t make much of the first of May in America, probably because it was a pagan holiday and the Puritans couldn’t endure it. (Killjoys.) It’s celebrated, or at least remembered, in Europe and the British Isles, mostly as a political holiday. But it has a romantic past:
On the first day of May [in England] young men and women would to rise a little before midnight and walk to some neighbouring wood, making music with horns and other instruments. There they would break boughs of hawthorn and other trees, weave garlands, and wander till sunrise, washing their faces in the May dew so magical in its properties. The boughs were then planted before the house-doors, and nosegays left at the thresholds; carols being sung, and gifts asked for in song. (Via.)
I remember a particularly lovely song I sang in choir about May Day:
The moon shines bright, the stars give a light
A little before tis day
Our Heavenly Father, he called to us
And bid us awake and pray.
Awake, awake, oh pretty, pretty maid
Out of your drowsy dream
And step into your dairy below
And fetch me a bowl of cream.
If not a bowl of thy sweet cream
A cup to bring me cheer
For the Lord knows when we shall meet again
To go Maying another year.
I have been wandering all this night
And some time of this day
And now returning home again
I’ve brought you a branch of May.
A branch of May I’ve brought you here
And at your door I stand
‘Tis nothing but a sprout, but it’s well budded out
By the work of our Lord’s hand.
My song is done and I must be gone
No longer can I stay
So it’s God bless you all, both great and small
And send you a joyful May.