'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town br The golden broom should blow; br The hawthorn sprinkled up and down br Should charge the land with snow. br br Spring will not wait the loiterer's time br Who keeps so long away; br So others wear the broom and climb br The hedgerows heaped with may. br br Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, br Gold that I never see; br Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge br That will not shower on me.