Wintry winds no longer blow,
Far away are frost and snow;
Peeping from its grassy bed,
The primrose rears its modest head;
And midst its leaves the violet blue,
Scents the air and morning dew.
Hark! the sky-lark, mounting high,
Carols in the clear blue sky;
The thrush and blackbird from the spray,
Chaunt their blithesome roundelay;
The little lambkins, safe from harm,
In their snow-white fleeces warm,
Gambol o'er the sunny mead,
And prove their strength, and try their speed:
From yon grassy knoll they spring,
And chase each other round the ring.