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 shepherd pipes 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!