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.
