Ivor Gurney — 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]1 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!