Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale,
Thy shearing feast, which never fail ;
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl,
That's tost up after fox i' th' hole;
Thy mummeries, Twelfth-night kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings;
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit ;
And no man pays too dear for it.
To these thou hast thy times to go,
And trace the hare in the treacherous snow;
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark unto the trammel net;
Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made;
Thy line-twigs, snares, and pit-falls, then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life, if that their good
The husbandmen but understood !
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these ;
And, lying down, have nought to affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.