Tie your kerchief, Susan Gray!
Come, while still the dewdrops twinkle,
O’er the hill with us away.
Every field is sunning, sunning
Broad its breast in morning’s blue;
Every brook is running, running,
Shall not we be running, too?
April calls from hill and valley,
Clad in fairy gold and green;
Bring your posies, Kate and Sally!