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 lav,
“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!