WHEN the sunshine is spilling like rain

In the laps of the buttercups,

And the breeze in the lane has a glad, new strain,

And the bee on the wild rose sups;

When daisies white in the door-yard peer,

With a dew-drop hung in each pretty ear,

Oh, then it is merry June.

When the saucy bobolink's laugh

Is reddening the cheeks of the pinks,

And the woodland stream is telling its dream,

And all the bright thoughts it thinks;

When butterflies flit through the meadow sweet,

And the showers and the sunbeams meet,

Oh, then it is merry June.

When the pathway that winds to the woods

Is hidden in flag-flowers blue,

And the airy birch has never a smirch

On her silvery gown but dew;

When sunset waits for the lady moon,

And morning wakes with a blush full soon,

Oh, then it is merry June.

When in roses and honeysuckles

The breezes perfume their wings,

Wilson strawberries hide in the meadows wide,

And laurels wake by the springs;

When the blue sky laughs the whole day long,

And the heart is light as the thrush's song,

Oh, then it is merry June.




—Susan Hartley