Now winter's sleety blasts are o'er
And trees their gayest livery wear;
The cuckoo's come to hail once more, '
With woodland note the vernal year;
To breathe the balmy breeze of morn,
And listen to the soaring lark;
The blushing wild-rose and hawthorn,
Invite a walk in Thrybergh Park.

Come, then, my love, let's climb the hill,
And view the smiling landscape round ;
Beneath yon woodland clacks the mill,
Coy echo oft repeats the sound ;
The Don slow winding down the vale,
Smooth o'er its surface glides the bark,
The distant towns and hills regale
Our eyes, when seen from Thrybergh Park.

See ! where the monarch of the glade,
Darts through the copse with nimble bound,
With ears erect and branching head,
As if he scorn'd to touch the ground.
The timid hare, the coney shy;
Sly reynard prowling in the dark;
The peacock's scream, the rook's hoarse cry,
Are seen and heard in Thrybergh Park.

The noble, stately edifice,
Which rears its towers sublime on high ;
Long may it prove the seat of bliss,
Far famed for hospitality;
But see, the shades of evening close,
The Sun's last glimmering, lingering spark;
All nature sinks in soft repose,
Farewell! adieu ! sweet Thrybergh Park.