| C | Dm | G | |
| It's | fifty long springtimes since | she was a | bride, |
| C | Dm | F | G | |
| But | still you may | see her at | each Whitsun | tide |
| C | G | C | G | |
| In a | dress of white | linen with | ribbons of | green, |
| C | Dm | G | C | |
| As | green as her | memories of | lov - | ing. |
| The feet that were nimble tread carefully now, |
| As gentle a measure as age will allow, |
| Through groves of white blossoms, by fields of young corn, |
| Where once she was pledged to her true-love. |
| The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow free -- |
| No young men to turn them or pastures go seed |
| They are gone where the forest of oak trees before |
| Have 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 honor where the Maypole once stood, |
| And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun. |
| There's a straight row of houses in these latter days |
| All covering the downs where the sheep used to graze. |
| There's a field of red poppies (a gift from the Queen) |
| But the ladies remember at Whitsun, |
| And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun. |
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