SPRING

by: Thomas Nashe (1567-1601)

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 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 daises 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!

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