'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town 
The golden broom should blow; 
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down 
Should charge the land with snow. 

Spring will not wait the loiterer's time 
Who keeps so long away; 
So others wear the broom and climb 
The hedgerows heaped with may. 

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, 
Gold that I never see; 
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge 
That will not shower on me.