Spring</STRONG>
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 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 bur ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! The sweet Spring!
 
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