Six part-songs, madrigals, and glees , opus 9

Spring it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?

Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him,
Maud and Marian pass him by;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey, --
What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly,
O for its folly!
A dancing leg and a laughing eye;
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly, --
What can an old man do but die?

Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;
Gold's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches!) --
What can an old man do but die?

She's up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robbed my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold,
But now 'tis turned to tears; --
My shadow falls upon my grave;
So near the brink I stand,
She might have staid a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill, --
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

Gentle Spring! in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for naught both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

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I will not have the mad Clytie,	
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;	
The tulip is a courtly quean,	
Whom, therefore I will shun;	
The cowslip is a country wench,	
The violet is a nun;	
But I will woo the dainty rose,	
The queen of every one.	
 
The pea is but a wanton witch,	
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;	
The wolfsbane I should dread;	
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,	
That always mourns the dead;	
But I will woo the dainty rose,	
With her cheeks of tender red.	
 
The lily is all in white, like a saint,	
And so is no mate for me,	
And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush,	
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,	
And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;	
But I will plight with the dainty rose,	
For fairest of all is she.

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