I am the month when roses
Bloom brightest o’er the glade,
I am the month when marriages
I lost happily are made.
Mine is the time of foliage,
When hills and valleys teem
With buds and vines sweet scented,
All clothed in glowing green.
My nights are bright and starry,
My days are long and clear
And truly I’m the fairest,
Of all months in the year.
With night dews gently falling,
With bees upon the wing,
And tiny rills soft rippling
Amid the valleys sing.
The farmer with his ploughshare,
Swift turning up the sod,
His brawny arms at labor,
His soul with Nature’s God.
The Lark with sweetest carol,
Doth greet the rising sun,
The Mock-bird at the even,
Loud whistles day is done.
O! I’m the month of beauty,
The summer’s crown I claim,
Now whisper to me softly,
And tell me what’s my name.