It's fifty long springtimes since she was a bride,
But still you may see her
at each Whitsuntide
In a dress of white linen with ribbons of green,
As
green as her memories of loving.
The feet that were nimble tread
carefully now,
As gentle a measure as age will allow,
Through groves of
white blossoms, by fields of young
corn,
Where once she was pledged to
her true-love.
The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow (go)
free--
No young men to turn them or pastures go see (seed)
They are gone
where the forest of oak trees before
Have
gone, to be wasted in battle.
Down from the green farmlands and from
their loved ones
Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and
sons.
There's a fine roll of honor where the Maypole once
stood,
And
the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.
There's a straight row of houses in
these latter days
All covering the downs where the sheep used to
graze.
There's a field of red poppies (a gift from the Queen)
But the
ladies remember at Whitsun,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.
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