It's fifty long springtimes since she was a bride
But still you may see her at each Whitsuntide
In a dress of white linen with 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 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 see
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 wreath from the Queen
But the ladies remember at Whitsun
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun