Now spring is here, the weather's fair,
There's buds on all the roses
The air is clear, wind in your hair
And mud between your toeses.
The brooks are singing loud again,
The birds are soon returning,
The dung-heaps smell behind the farms
And leaf-fires are burning.
The roads and paths are getting wet
And turn into morasses;
And looser does the clothing get
As do the lads and lasses.
Sing ho! for spring and love and pies
And hey! for the new Shire!
And greet a thousand new-bred flies
And sting-gnats in the mire.
So when the brambles close your way
And stab thorns in your toe;
Then to the Shire, friend, sing Hey!
To spring, my dear, sing Ho!