And, though they call it the month of May, the hawthorn has no flowers;
And the ice in patches may yet be found in swamps and hollows gray,—
Ain't it nice for the Queen o' the May, mother, so nice for the Queen o' the May?
The East wind blows and blows, mother, on my nose I follow suit,
For my influenza's so very bad, and I've got a cough to boot;
Perhaps it will rain and sleet, mother, the whole of the livelong day,
Yet, I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother; I must be Queen o' the May.
I've not the slightest doubt, mother, I shall come home very ill,
And then there'll be bed for a week or more, and a long, long, doctor's bill;
And with prices up and wages down however will father pay?