Blow, blow, winds of May,
Ruffle the bloomy spray,
Blow all the balm away;
Hark 'tis my roundelay.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Here's to the merry morn,
Another joy is born
Hail to the huntsman's horn,
For the bluebell greets the corn.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Long ere the oak-leaves shine,
Or the woolly buds on the vine
Promise the blood of the wine,
I dream of the dear confine
Of the woods that are mine, that are mine.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

With iron frost on the bark,
And the hazels stiffened and stark,
Far from the doom of the dark
I drown the lay of the lark.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

I have neither sorrow nor strife,
Music's the joy of my life
Beauty and pleasure are rife
And all the world is my wife.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Blow, blow, winds of May,
Ruffle the bloomy spray,
Blow all the balm away;
Hark 'tis my roundelay.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!