WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap,

Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,

When midnight dances are murdering sleep,

Then comes in the sweet o’ the year

And far from Fleet Street, far from here,

The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,

And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep

Mingles with musical plash of the weir,

Where drowned green tresses of crowsfeet creep,

Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!

And better a crust and a beaker of beer,

With rose hung hedges on either hand,

Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer,

When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When big trout late in the twilight leap,

When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,

When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,

Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!

And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer,

While kine knee-deep in the water stand,

On a highland loch, on a Lowland mere,

When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,

Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!

And the summer runs out, like grains of sand,

When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!