Where have the dancing ladies gone,
those fair and merry maids,
that once so sweetly filled the air?
Too soon, their laughter fades.
(It must be spring that bids them go
and seek for other haunts;
once winter’s grip has loosened on them,
they have other wants)
And so, the tavern echoes now
with silent, mirthless men
who sit and sip their bitter brews
and think of shady glens.
(It must be spring, but if it be,
this place should feel it, too,
Instead of fading with the night
like stars are wont to do)
The bard is set to sing anew,
but needs attentive ears;
for when the place is bright and gay,
then inspiration nears.
(It must be spring, the waking world,
that brings on such a need
for dancing, song and tender smiles –
Pan plays upon this reed)
Oh, ladies, come ye back again
and share your warmth and grace;
and I’ll endeavor by and by
to liven up this place.