I
Hotly burns the amaryllis,
Starred with ruby red:
Coolly stand the snowy lilies
In the lily-bed:
Emerald gleams the wild May-apple,
’Neath its parasol,
And where gold the sunbeams dapple
Woods, and thrushes call,
Marion strolls with Moll,
Singing, “Fol-de-rol;
Fol-de, fol-de-rol.
II
“March was but a blustering liar;
April, sad as night:
May, a milkmaid from the byre,
Full of love but light.
June, sweet June!—ah! she’s My Lady,
Fair and fine and tall,
Strolling down the woodways shady—
June is best of all!
She is like my Moll!
Fol-de-rol-de-rol!
She is like sweet Moll!”