Country Glee
Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers,Wait on your Summer-Queen;Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,Daffodils strew the green;Sing, dance, and play,'Tis holiday;The sun does bravely shineOn our ears of corn.Rich as a pearlComes every girl,This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;Let us die, ere away they be borne.
Bow to the Sun, to our Queen, and that fair oneCome to behold our sports;Each bonny lass here is counted a rare oneAs those in princes' courts.These and weWith country glee,Will teach the woods to resound,And the hills with echoes hollow:Skipping lambsTheir bleating dams,'Mongst kids shall trip it round;For joy thus our wenches we follow.
Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly,Hounds make a lusty cry;Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely,Then let your brave hawks fly.Horses amain,Over ridge, over plain,The dogs have the stag in chase:'Tis a sport to content a king.So ho, ho! through the skiesHow the proud bird flies,And sousing, kills with a grace!Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring.
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