HAWTHORN. 
69 
GOING A-MAYING. 
JOHN INGRAM. 
Oh, we will go a-Maying, love, 
A-Maying we will go, 
Beneath the branches swaying, love, 
With weight of scented snow. 
Laburnum’s golden tresses, love, 
Float in the perfumed air; 
Which heedless their caresses, love. 
Seeks violets in their lair; 
And with their scents a-playing, love, 
It gambols to and fro— 
Where we will go a-Maying, love, 
Where we will Maying go. 
The bees are busy humming, love, 
Amid the opening blooms, 
Foretelling Summer’s coming, love— 
Farewell to wintry glooms. 
The primrose pale, from crinkly sheen, 
Up from the ground now speeds; 
And cowslips slim, ’mid leafy green, 
Rise in the unknown meads. 
And buttercups are weighing, love, 
The gold they soon must strow— 
Where we will go a-Maying, love, 
Where we will Maying go. 
The hawthorn’s bloom is falling, love, 
We must no longer wait; 
Each bird is blithely calling, love, 
Unto his chosen mate ; 
