XXIX
        
'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.