Poem 3:
THE ECHOING GREEN
THE ECHOING GREEN
| The sun does arise, |
| And make happy the skies; |
| The merry bells ring |
| To welcome the Spring; |
| The skylark and thrush, |
| The birds of the bush, |
| Sing louder around |
| To the bells' cheerful sound; |
| While our sports shall be seen |
| On the echoing green. |
| Old John, with white hair, |
| Does laugh away care, |
| Sitting under the oak, |
| Among the old folk. |
| They laugh at our play, |
| And soon they all say, |
| 'Such, such were the joys |
| When we all—girls and boys - |
| In our youth-time were seen |
| On the echoing green.' |
| Till the little ones, weary, |
| No more can be merry: |
| The sun does descend, |
| And our sports have an end. |
| Round the laps of their mothers |
| Many sisters and brothers, |
| Like birds in their nest, |
| Are ready for rest, |
| And sport no more seen |
| On the darkening green. |
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