It's fifty -one springtime
since she was a bride
And still you may see her
at each wits 'n -tide
In a dress of white linen
and ribbons of green
As green as her memor
ies of loving.
The feet that were nimble
tread carefully now,
As gentle a measure as age do allow.
Through groves of white blossom,
by fields of young corn,
Where once she was pledged
to her true love.
The fields they stand empty,
the hedges grow free,
No young men to tend them,
nor pastures go see.
They have gone
where the forests of oak trees before
Had gone to be wasted
in battle.
Down from their green farmlands
And from their loved ones,
marched husbands and brothers,
an d fathers and sons.
There's a fine roll of honour
where the Maypole once was,
And the ladies go dancing
at Whitsun.
There's a row of straight houses
in these latter days
Are covering the downs
where the sheep used to graze
There's a field of red poppies
an d a wreath from the Queen
But the ladies remember at Whitson
And the ladies go dancing
at Whitson
Come you young men, come along
With your music, arms and song
Bring your lasses in your hands
For tis that which love commands
Then to the Maypole haste away,
For tis now a holiday.