That special month we know as May,
Is over now, no more to stay.
Buttercup-meadows, stain trousers yellow,
Midst verdant pastures that now are mellow.
The heavy scent of Hawthorn bush,
The flight of rabbits in a rush.
Small birds chirping in the tree,
The busy buzzing of bumble-bee
Swooping Swallows have returned once more,
From that far-off distant shore.
The cows out at last in Summer's sun,
With grass to eat and room to run.
The smell of Garlic all around,
Those green shoots sprouting from the ground.
The dainty scent of pink Mayflower,
Grows stronger with each fleeting hour.
Horse-chestnut flowers all creamy-white,
The start of conkers for boys' delight.
A puffs a tick and a puffs a tock,
That tells the time by a Dandelion-clock.
The Ash the last to bloom this year,
Thought it had died, that was our fear.
The bleating sheep they seem to say,
"It's not long now until next May."
Is over now, no more to stay.
Buttercup-meadows, stain trousers yellow,
Midst verdant pastures that now are mellow.
The heavy scent of Hawthorn bush,
The flight of rabbits in a rush.
Small birds chirping in the tree,
The busy buzzing of bumble-bee
Swooping Swallows have returned once more,
From that far-off distant shore.
The cows out at last in Summer's sun,
With grass to eat and room to run.
The smell of Garlic all around,
Those green shoots sprouting from the ground.
The dainty scent of pink Mayflower,
Grows stronger with each fleeting hour.
Horse-chestnut flowers all creamy-white,
The start of conkers for boys' delight.
A puffs a tick and a puffs a tock,
That tells the time by a Dandelion-clock.
The Ash the last to bloom this year,
Thought it had died, that was our fear.
The bleating sheep they seem to say,
"It's not long now until next May."
