The hawthorn is sweetly in bloom

The hawthorn is sweetly in bloom; And daisies bedeck the gay mead, The rose sheds its richest perfume, And each love-tale of youth must succeed. Ah! why in this season of joy, Ah! why is my shepherd away? While absent, the seasons but cloy, And vain is the fragrance of May.

When forced from our plains to depart, The swain was so gentle and kind; His sighs spoke the pangs of his heart, To leave his poor Daphne behind: Yet why in this season of joy, Ah! why does my Corrydon stay? While absent, all seasons must cloy. And lost are the pleasures of May.

In vain I've collected each flower, With woodbine entwin'd every tree; In vain have bedeck'd the gay bower, Unless it is deck'd thus for thee:

Then come, my dear Corydon, come, The fields and the meadows are gay; No joys can you find while you roam, Like our plains when enliven'd by May.