When you meet with the young men early in spring

They caught you in song and rhyme.

They woo you with words and a clover ring But if you examine the goods they bring

They have little to offer But the songs they sing

And a plentiful waste of time of day

A plentiful waste of time.

It's a long, long while

From May to December

And the days grow short

When you reach September

When the autumn weather

is the least

One hasn't got time

For the waiting game

All the days dwindled on

To a precious few.

Subject.

November

In these new precious days

I'll spend with you

These precious days I'll spend

with you

to a precious few.

September.

No more.

And these few

precious days.

I'll spend with you

These golden days I'll spend

with you.