Rejoice, my little merry mate!

The blithesome Spring is coming,

When thou shalt roam, with heart elate,

To hear the wild bee humming;

To hear the wild bee humming round,

The primrose sweetly blowing,

And listen to each gentle sound

Of gladsome music flowing.

The birds shall sing from many a bower,

Joy like thy own obeying;

And, round full many a blooming flower,

The butterfly be playing;—

Be playing, love! on wings as light

As heart in thy young bosom,

And showing tints as fair and bright

As does the opening blossom.

The snow-drops, by our garden-walk,

Long since to life have started;

They wither now upon the stalk;

Their beauty is departed:

Their beauty is departed,— but

Flowers in the fields are springing,

Which by and by shall ope and shut,

As to the glad birds’ singing.

The robin, from the pear-tree bough,

Gives us of song our ear-full;

The morns are getting lightsome now,

The evenings growing cheerful:

And soon they’ll be more long and light,

With warm and pleasant weather;

And we, to see the sun-set bright,

May go abroad together.

Then shall our summer haunts again

Renew their former pleasures;

The poplar grove, the shady lane,

For thee be full of treasures:

For flowers are treasures unto thee,

And well thou lov’st to find them;

To gather them with childish glee,

And then in posies bind them.

Spring is to me no merry time;

Its smiles are touch’d with sadness;

For vanish’d, with Life's early prime,

Is much that gave it gladness:

Yet, merry play-mate! for thy sake

I will not sing of sorrow;

But since thou canst its joys partake,

I would ‘twere Spring to-morrow!