Oh! the rosy month of June I hail as summer's queen; The hills and valleys sing in joy, and all the woods are green; And streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are all in tune; And Nature smiles in summer's pride, in the rosy month of June. The sixth month of the year Is the month of June, When the weather's too hot to be borne, The master doth say, As he goes on his way, "To-morrow my sheep shall be shorn."