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! 
y-' 'v4 
. .3 
A 
