Song

The lintwhite and the throstlecock

Have voices sweet and clear;

All in the blooméd May.

They from the blosmy brere

Call to the fleeting year,

If that he would them hear

And stay.

Alas! that one so beautiful

Should have so dull an ear.

Fair year, fair year, thy children call,

But thou art deaf as death;

All in the blooméd May.

When thy light perisheth

That from thee issueth,

Our life evanisheth:

Oh! stay.

Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb

Should have so sweet a breath!

Fair year, with brows of royal love

Thou comest, as a king.

All in the blooméd May.

Thy golden largess fling,

And longer hear us sing;

Though thou art fleet of wing,

Yet stay.

Alas! that eyes so full of light

Should be so wandering!

Thy locks are all of sunny sheen

In rings of gold yronne,

All in the blooméd May.

We pri'thee pass not on;

If thou dost leave the sun,

Delight is with thee gone,

Oh! stay.

Thou art the fairest of thy feres,

We pri'thee pass not on.