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.