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Well time she did as time she does,
She passed along her way.
And dawn she crept like a frightened girl,
Out from the night time's sway.

But in the merry month of May,
A solemn fact does lurk,
For Spring it sprang as Spring it does,
And put the bees to work.

And work they must,
And work they shall,
For all the things to grow,
For if they don't as time she knows,
They'd wither on the bough.
And what a shame such things would be,
No wondrous wine for you and me,
No cider too, nor mead nor soup,
For us to all make merry.

So rot, ferment and decompose,
So all the things can grow,
Or wallow in a drinkless world,
And wither on the bough.

Oh what a dusty burden,
That nectar and that pollen.
Like Atlas with the heavens,
On the back of his head,
And what if they should falter
And shrug their little shoulders?
Well time she'd pass all the same.

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