Come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood;
Loudly the blackbird is singing,
The squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud,
And the curled fern is springing;
Here ye may sleep
In the moss so deep,
While the moon is so warm and so weary,
And sweetly awake
As the sun through the brake
Bids the fauvette and white-throat sing cheery.

The quicken is tufted with blossom of snow,
And is throwing its perfume around it;
The wryneck replies to the cuckoo's halloo,
For joy that again she has found it;
The jay's red breast
Peeps over her nest,
In the midst of the crab-blossoms blushing;
And the call of the pheasant
Is frequent and pleasant,
When all other calls are hushing.