  ’TIS Spring, my love, ’tis Spring, And the birds begin to sing: If ’t was Winter, left alone with you, Your bonny form and face, Would make a Summer place, And be the finest flower that ever grew. Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring, And the hazel catkins hing, While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew; But that’s not so white within As your bosom’s hidden skin— That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew. The sun arose from bed, All strewn with roses red, But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place Is not so fresh and fair, Or so sweet beyond compare, As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face. I love Spring’s early flowers, And their bloom in its first hours, But they never half so bright or lovely seem As the blithe and happy grace Of my darling’s blushing face, And the happiness of loves young dream. |
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