The Lover's Song

When Winter hoar no longer holds

The young year in his gripe,

And bleating voices fill the folds,

And blackbirds pair and pipe;

Then coax the maiden where the sap

Awakes the woodlands drear,

And pour sweet wildflowers in her lap,

And sweet words in her ear.

For Springtime is the season, sure,

Since Love's game first was played,

When tender thoughts begin to lure

The heart of April maid,

Of maid,

The heart of April maid.

When June is wreathed with wilding rose,

And all the buds are blown,

And O, this joy to dream and doze

In meadows newly mown;

Then take her where the graylings leap,

And where the dabchick dives,

Or where the bees in clover reap

The harvest for their hives.

For Summer is the season when,

If you but know the way,

A maid that's kissed will kiss again,

Then pelt you with the hay,

The hay,

Then pelt you with the hay.

When sickles ply among the wheat,

Then trundle home the sheaves,

And there's a rustling of the feet

Through early fallen leaves;

Entice her where the orchard glows

With apples plump and tart,

And tell her plain the thing she knows,

And ask her for her heart.

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