Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,
Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,
Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,
Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."—
But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
And why are you singing of a May that is fled?—
O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,
And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.
And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful
That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,