Clad is the year in all her best, The land is sweet and sheen;Now Spring with Summer at her breast, Goes down the meadows green.

Here are we met to welcome in The young abounding year, To praise what she would have us win Ere winter draweth near.

For surely all is not in vain, This gallant show she brings;But seal of hope and sign of gain, Beareth this Spring of springs.

No longer now the seasons wear Dull, without any tale Of how the chain the toilers bear Is growing thin and frail.

But hope of plenty and goodwill Flies forth from land to land, Nor any now the voice can still That crieth on the hand.

A little while shall Spring come back And find the Ancient Home Yet marred by foolish waste and lack, And most enthralled by some.

A little while, and then at last Shall the greetings of the year Be blent with wonder of the past And all the griefs that were.

A little while, and they that meet The living year to praise, Shall be to them as music sweet That grief of bye-gone days.

So be we merry to our best, Now the land is sweet and sheen, And Spring with Summer at her breast Goes down the meadows green.