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!