Now it's Springtime, in the morning
There's a pallid cuckoo calling.
There's a plaintive cuckoo calling
From the road beside the sea;
There's a mist of blossom falling
Where the buds are still unfolding,
And the orchard trees are holding
In their sun-entangled branches
All the sweets that yet will be.
Now its Springtime, every morning
There's a dew upon the bracken,
On the amber-fronded bracken
Running wildly to the sea;
And the ride young breezes slacken,
Piping airy fairy marches,
In among the tea-tree arches,
Where the frail clematis fingers
Weave their fancy stitchery!
Now it's Springtime, in the morning
I'll be going, I'll be going.
I'll be up and gladly going
With the first-awakened bee;
Down a sandy way I'm knowing
I'll be laughing, I'll be leaping.
Where the pig-face roots are creeping
And the boats all newly painted
Lean toward the sapphire sea.
First published in The Bulletin, 25 September 1929
