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I'll still lament in brinish tears,
until the day I die,
since the lowlands of Holland
hath twin'd my love and me.
✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣
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.
