'Tis spring; come out to ramble 
   The hilly brakes around, 
For under thorn and bramble 
   About the hollow ground 
   The primroses are found. 

And there's the windflower chilly 
   With all the winds at play, 
And there's the Lenten lily 
   That has not long to stay 
   And dies on Easter day. 

And since till girls go maying 
   You find the primrose still, 
And find the windflower playing 
   With every wind at will, 
   But not the daffodil, 

Bring baskets now, and sally 
   Upon the spring's array, 
And bear from hill and valley 
   The daffodil away 
   That dies on Easter day.