| |
| 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. | |
| |
| 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. | |
| |
| 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. | |
| |
| 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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