Whan that March doth kom with windes stronge
That blow the olde autum leefs alonge’,
Men turn their hearts to hope for the springe
And al the warmth and flowers she will bringe.

They turn their hearts from skiing to the grasse
And ryse to their feet from lazy asse
And go into the yarde for to digge,
And grubbe in the mud much like a pigge.

‘Tis than men tak the pruning hook in hande
And hake all the orchards in the lande
In hopes that fruit will grow large on the treese,
(Me thinks them foolish for buds always freeze).

A tyme whan o’er the world doth love out-breke
En eek man trys a younge wyf to take;
The world, it seems to swoon as tho ‘twere sik,
But ne, ‘tis only Cupid’s wikke trick.

03/04/1974

Author's Note: One of my "oldies", but an unshared "goodie."

Posted on 03/27/2019
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes