In spring we sow the harvest mow,|
And that is how the seasons round they go,
But of all the seasons chose I may,
It's to ramble in the new mown hay.
For I like to rise when the sun she rises,
Early in the morning,
I like to hear the small birds singing,
Merrily upon the leylan,
And hurrah for the life of a country boy,
And to ramble in the new mown hay.
2. In winter when the skies are grey,
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