It’s fifty-one spring times since she was a bride
But still you may see her at each Whitsuntide
In a dress of white linen and ribbons of green
As green as her memories of loving
The feet that were nimble tread carefully now
As gentle a measure as age do allow
Through groves of white blossom and fields of young corn
Where once she was pledged to her true-love
The fields they are empty, the hedges grow free
No young men to tend them or pastures go see
They’ve gone where the forest of oak trees before
Had gone to be wasted in battle
Down from the green farmlands and from their loved ones
Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons
There’s a fine roll of honour where the maypole once was
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun
There’s a straight row of houses in these latter days
Are covering the Downs where the sheep used to graze
There’s a field of red poppies, a wreath from the Queen
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun
And the ladies remember at Whitsun
