How pleasant in winter to sit by the hob,
just listening to barks and the howls of the dog.
Or to walk through the green fields where wild daisies grew,
to pluck the wildflowers in the May morning dew.
When summer is coming, when summer is near,
with the trees all so green and the sky bright and clear.
And the wee birds all singing, their loved ones to woo,
and the young flowers all springing in the May morning dew.
I remember the old folk all now dead and gone.
And likewise my two brothers, young Dennis and John.
How we ran o'er the heather, the wild hare to pursue,
and the proud deer we hunted in the May morning dew.
Of the house I was born in, there's but a stone on a stone,
and now all 'round the garden, wild thistles have grown.
And gone are the neighbors that I once knew,
no more will we wander through the May morning Dew.