2 Wit 2 Woo

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !

The palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit
In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
Spring, the sweet spring!

THOMAS NASHE, Summer's Last Will and Testament, 1600; acted 1592.

Another day, another van in another Inverurie car park...

Ever since I first heard Mr Nashe's opus, a long time ago now, I've reckoned it to be one of the silliest poems ever written.

No way is it spring, but with cold definitely starting to sting, that bit about Summer's Last Will and Testament may not be far wrong.