Dancing At Whitsun

It's fifty long springtimes since she was a bride, But still you may see her at each WhitsuntideIn 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 youngCorn, 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 beforeHave gone, to be wasted in battle.Down from the green farmlands and from their loved onesMarched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons.There's a fine roll of honor where the Maypole onceStood, And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.There's a straight row of houses in these latter daysAll 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.