In June

I

Hotly burns the amaryllis,
Starred with ruby red:
Coolly stand the snowy lilies
In the lily-bed:
Emerald gleams the wild May-apple,
’Neath its parasol,
And where gold the sunbeams dapple
Woods, and thrushes call,
Marion strolls with Moll,
Singing, “Fol-de-rol;
Fol-de, fol-de-rol.

II

“March was but a blustering liar;
April, sad as night:
May, a milkmaid from the byre,
Full of love but light.
June, sweet June!--ah! she’s My Lady,
Fair and fine and tall,
Strolling down the woodways shady--
June is best of all!
She is like my Moll!
Fol-de-rol-de-rol!
She is like sweet Moll!”