Drowned mariner, or, The lowlands of Holland hath twin'd my love & me/The Sporting Hay-makers

The SPORTING HAY-MAKERS.

IN the merry month of June,
in the prime time of the year,
Down in yonder meadow,
there runs a river clear
And many a little fish,
doth in that river play,
and many a lad and many a lass,
went abroad in making hay.

In came a jolly scythe man,
to mow the meadow down,
With budget and with bottle
of ale that’s stout and brown
All labouring men of courage bold,
came there their skill to try,
Let’s whet and blow’, and stoutly mow,
for the grass cuts very dry.

There’s nimble Tib and Tom,
with pitchfork and with rake,
There’s Molly, Nell, and Susan,
came here their hay to make:
Sweet jug, jug, jug, jug, sweet jug,
the Nightingale doth sing,
From morning until evening,
as they were a hay-making.

But when that bright Phoebus
the sun was going down,
A merry dispose'd piper,
approaching from the town,
Pull’d out his pipe and tabour,
disposing for to play,
Which made them all lay down their rakes,
and leave off making hay.

So joining with the dance,
we jig it on the green;
Though tired with our labour,
no weariness was seen;
All tripping like to furies,
our dance we did pursue,
With leading up, and casting off,
till the morning it’s in view.

Then each lad he takes his lass,
the morning being come.
And lays her down on the hay-cock,
till the rising of the sun:
There sporting all the time,
while the harmless birds do sing,
Each lad doth rise and take his lass,
and away to the hay-making.