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!