When you meet with the young men early in Spring,
They court 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...
Oh, it's a long, long time
from May to December,
And the days grow short
when you reach September.
And the Autumn weather
Turns the leaves to flame,
And I haven't got time
For the waiting game.
Oh, the days dwindle down
To a precious few:
September, November...
And these few precious days
I'll spend with you.
These golden days
I'd spend with you.
When I was a young man courting the girls,
I played me a waiting game:
If a maid refused me with tossing curls,
I’d let the old earth take a couple of twirls,
And I’d ply her with tears instead of pearls.
And as time came around, she came my way.
As time came around, she came...
Oh, the days dwindle down
To a precious few:
September, November...
And these few precious days
I'll spend with you.
These golden days
I'd spend with you.