 | The Shepherd's Garden |  |
19
THE SWEET SEASON.
Come hither, shepherds, come,
Now the bees with busy hum,
And every bird his cheery note doth sing, sing, sing.
Cold Winter he is gone,
Summer sits upon her throne
Where the rivulets with merry chiming ring.
Now the bees with busy hum,
And every bird his cheery note doth sing, sing, sing.
Cold Winter he is gone,
Summer sits upon her throne
Where the rivulets with merry chiming ring.
Upon her head is set
A floral coronet,
And in her heaped-up hands so fine, fine, fine,
Bright blossoms beam like stars,
And the garment that she wears
Is broidered with long sprigs of columbine.
A floral coronet,
And in her heaped-up hands so fine, fine, fine,
Bright blossoms beam like stars,
And the garment that she wears
Is broidered with long sprigs of columbine.
See how she sits at ease,
Singing gaily where the trees
Hang their burdened branches to the ground, ground, ground!
Oh, for love of such a queen
Each joyous heart had been
With Cupid's thorny wreath of roses crown'd!
Singing gaily where the trees
Hang their burdened branches to the ground, ground, ground!
Oh, for love of such a queen
Each joyous heart had been
With Cupid's thorny wreath of roses crown'd!
| The Shepherd's Garden | |