S
pring,
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 houses gay, [hawthorn blossoms]
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!
Thomas Nashe
