Spring 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.