SPRING.

     Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;

     Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

     Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,

     Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

     The palm and may make country houses gay,

     Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,

     And we hear aye birds tune their merry lay,

       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

     The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,

     Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,

     In every street these tunes our ears do greet,

       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

          Spring, the sweet Spring!

     T. NASH.