HAWTHORN. 
6 g 
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 ; 
