Tis time, I think by Wenlock town
'Tis time, I think by Wenlock townThe golden broom should blow;The hawthorn sprinkled up and downShould charge the land with snow.
Spring will not wait the loiterer's timeWho keeps so long away;So others wear the broom and climbThe hedgerows heaped with may.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,Gold that I never see;Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedgeThat will not shower on me.
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