If you would hear the thrushes sing,
Then go to Georgetown in the spring,
And wander slowly at your ease
Along the avenues of trees.

The sunshine and the shadows meet
To weave a web across the street.
And in and out its magic strands
Play httle children, joining hands.

The sky is washed with showers and dew.
Until it looks the palest blue,
And in the gardens down below
You almost see the grasses grow.

There's something very very old
About the place, so we are told.
And yet it's marvellously gay
And young, when seen on such a day !

The silent comers all around
Break up in waves of pleasant sound,
The mansions of Colonial days
Allow the sun to gild their greys.

The paving-stones, with earth between.
Are fringed with shoots of emerald green,
And oh ! the song the thrushes sing
In Georgetown, when the year's at spring !