text: Spring, the sweet spring, is the years 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!
  
  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!
              Spring, the sweet spring!