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Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold cloth 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 this 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! |