Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the
hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of
her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true
lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting
of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond
request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her
beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely
breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open
bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy
nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my
lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my
dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the
day.
