Song—Young Spring.
Young Spring he was a rosy boy,
And loved light skies and breezes;
Sweet, calm and tranquil in his joy,
Like one whom each thing pleases.
He danced amid the hawthorn shade,
Before it burst to blossom,
And scattered yellow wild-flowers round
Just where he liked to toss ’em.
Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
You are a merry creature,
And when you smile, it makes us smile,
Yea—smile in every feature!
Our poets, in the times of old,
O’er-loaded him with praises,
As if his path all glory were,
Midst bright fields rich in daisies.
But now he seems to walk on clouds
With heavy plunging paces,
And squirts, as from a watering-pot,
Rain-drizzle in our faces.
Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
You’re grown a freakish fellow,
For now you smile, and now you weep,—
John!—bring me my umbrella.
Tis said, in ancient days he dwelt
In bowers of blooming roses,
Whilst nigh him, on the fragrant turf,
Warm Zephyr’s wing reposes;
But now he can blow hot and cold,
Just like the fabled satyr,
And chill your blood, and cramp your bones,
And make your old teeth chatter.
Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
You are a precious turncoat,
For you were warm, but now you’re cold,—
George!—get me out my greatcoat!
If that his olden days were fair,
And full of glowing sunshine,
His temper, then, has altered much,
Or all such talk was—moonshine.
For now his humours often breed
A most unseemly weather,
Where rain and hail and frost and snow
Come mingled up together.
Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
Old Winter you impannel,
And play at romps with frost and snow,—
Jane!—air my under-flannel!