Merry it is on a summer’s day,
All through the meadows to wend away;
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
And the little fish twinkle down below;
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing,
Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing—But
’tis merrier far to swing—to swing!
Merry it is on a winter’s night,
To listen to tales of elf and sprite,
Of caves and castles so dim and old,—
The dismallest tales that ever were told;—
And then to laugh, and then to sing,
You may take my word is a merry thing,—
But ’tis merrier far to swing—to swing!
Down with the hoop upon the green;
Down with the ringing tambourine;—
Little heed we for this or for that;
Off with the bonnet, off with the hat!
Away we go like birds on the wing!
Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!”
This is the way we swing—we swing!
Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light,
Mount up behind him—there, that is right!
Down bends the branch now;—swing him away;
Higher yet—higher yet—higher I say!
Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing
“A pear for the Queen—an apple for the King!”
And shake the old tree as we swing—we swing!