Spring Morning - II

Willie.     Roget, droop not, see the spring     Is the earth enamelling,     And the birds on every tree     Greet this morn with melody:     Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,     And her mate as proudly vants it     See how every stream is dress'd     By her margin with the best     Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad     For such brooks such flow'rs she had.     All the trees are quaintly tired     With green buds, of all desired;     And the hawthorn every day     Spreads some little show of May:     See the primrose sweetly set     By the much-lov'd violet,     All the banks do sweetly cover,     As they would invite a lover     With his lass to see their dressing     And to grace them by their pressing:     Yet in all this merry tide     When all cares are laid aside,     Roget sits as if his blood     Had not felt the quick'ning good     Of the sun, nor cares to play,     Or with songs to pass the day     As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,     Raise thy head, and merrily     Tune us somewhat to thy reed:     See our flocks do freely feed,     Here we may together sit,     And for music very fit     Is this place; from yonder wood     Comes an echo shrill and good,     Twice full perfectly it will     Answer to thine oaten quill.     Roget, droop not then, but sing     Some kind welcome to the spring.     The Shepherd's Pipe.