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 tune¹ 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 tunes² our ears do greet,

　　Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo！

　　Spring! the sweet Spring！