IN MARCH.
There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead,
And the road by the common's the brave road to tread;
You miss all your neighbours,
And hear the wind play
His pipes and his tabors
Along the king's way.
From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble out
To dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout;
For all honest people
There's gold on the whin,
And bells in the steeple,
And ale at the inn.
The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun,
And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton.
They stamp and they sidle,
Their great necks they arch,
And snatch at the bridle
This morning of March.
For Winter is over, you see the fine sights—
The geese on the common, the boys flying kites,
The daffydowndillies
That stoop on the stem,
And my pretty Phyllis
Who's gathering them.