“Spring, the sweet 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!