|
|
|
I It is the Spring-tide now! Under the hawthorn-bough The milkmaid goes: Her eyes are violets blue Washed with the morning dew, Her mouth a rose. It is the Spring-tide now. II The lanes are growing sweet, The lambkins frisk and bleat In all the meadows: The glossy dappled kine Blink in the warm sunshine, Cooling their shadows. It is the Spring-tide now. III Soon hand in sunburnt hand Thro' God's green fairyland, England, our home, Whispering as they stray Adown the primrose way, Lovers will roam. It is the Spring-tide now. |