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.