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WHEN Winter hoar no longer holds | |
The young year in his gripe, | |
And bleating voices fill the folds, | |
And blackbirds pair and pipe; | |
Then coax the maiden where the sap | 5 |
Awakes the woodlands drear, | |
And pour sweet wildflowers in her lap, | |
And sweet words in her ear. | |
For Springtime is the season, sure, | |
Since Loves game first was playd, | 10 |
When tender thoughts began to lure | |
The heart of April maid, | |
Of maid, | |
The heart of April maid. | |
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When June is wreathd with wilding rose, | 15 |
And all the buds are blown, | |
And O, tis joy to dream and doze | |
In meadows newly mown; | |
Then take her where the graylings leap, | |
And where the dabchick dives, | 20 |
Or where the bees in clover reap | |
The harvest for their hives. | |
For Summer is the season when, | |
If you but know the way, | |
The maid that s kissd will kiss again, | 25 |
Then pelt you with the hay, | |
The hay, | |
Then pelt you with the hay. | |
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When sickles ply among the wheat, | |
Then trundle home the sheaves, | 30 |
And there s a rustling of the feet | |
Thro early-fallen leaves; | |
Entice her where the orchard glows | |
With apples plump and tart, | |
And tell her plain the thing she knows, | 35 |
And ask her for her heart. | |
For Autumn is the season, boy, | |
To gather what we sow; | |
If you be bold, she wont be coy, | |
Nor ever say you no, | 40 |
Say no, | |
Nor ever say you no. | |
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When woodmen clear the coppice lands, | |
And arch the hornbeam drive, | |
And stamp their feet, and chafe their hands, | 45 |
To keep their blood alive; | |
Then lead her where, where vows are heard, | |
The church-bells peal and swing, | |
And, as the parson speaks the word, | |
Then on her clap the ring. | 50 |
For Winter is a cheerless time | |
To live and lie alone; | |
But what to him is snow or rime | |
Who calls his love his own, | |
His own, | 55 |
Who calls his love his own? | |
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