Go, fetch to me a pint o'wine - And fill it in a silver tassie, - That I may drink, before I go...

It is very cold here, bad, bad, bad...
I long for spring !
Spring doesn't appear of a sudden, at once,
Like a sound, approaching, in volume it gains -
From the bowels of the snow,
with vague aches and pains, in my bones.
Spring starts with damp blizzards that whirl and dance,
Cows milking with all their might and main.
Let me drink my wine in... Cascais... Some times perhaps.

Spring starts with: a glass, a bottle or more of wine...
With the guttural crying of crow battalions.
At first not overflowing its bounds,
But cross, it tosses, its banks in pounds.
Please give me a barrel of wine...

However you try to control your mood,
However with abstinence torture your heart,
Spring raises a tumult throughout your blood
When you get your glass of wine your mood 
Comes  and taker the clouds apart.