T. Nash

 I. 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 tune 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 tunes our ears do greet,
 
  Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
 
      Spring! the sweet Spring!



{runs off to make sure nobody posted this in my Spring Poetry thread... [/smile]}


formerly known as etaoin...