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!
Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place-- Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Best is thy dwelling-place-- Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
O Blithe newcomer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near!
Though babbling only to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessèd bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place: That is fit home for thee!