'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow

Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me