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! 
Spring! the sweet Spring! 
Thomas Nash (1567-1601) 
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! 
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