Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

Spring, the sweet spring

BY THOMAS NASHE

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! 

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!