Classic Poem

Drifted snow no more is seen,
Blust'ring Winter passes by;
Merry Spring comes clad in green,
While woodlands pour their melody:
I hear him! hark!
The merry lark
Calls us to the new-mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.

When the golden sun appears,
On the mountain's surly brow,
When his jolly beams he rears,
Darting joy, behold them now:
Then, then, oh hark!
The merry lark
Calls us to the new-mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.

What are honours? What's a court?
Calm Content is worth them all;
Our honour is to drive the cart,
Our brightest court the harvest-hall:
But now — oh hark!
The merry lark
Calls us to the new-mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.