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, by fields of young corn
Where once she was pledged to her true love

The fields they are empty, thе hedges grow free
No young men to tеnd them, or pastures go see
They've gone where the forests of oak trees before
Had gone to be wasted in battle

Down from their 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 row of straight 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
But the ladies remember at Whitsun
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun