Thomas Dekker (1572-1632 / England)

Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait upon 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 shine
On our ears of corn.
Rich as a pearl,
Comes 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 one,
Come to behold our sports.
Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,
As those in princes' courts.
These and we
With country glee,
Will teach the woods to resound
And the hills with echoes hollow;
Skipping lambs
Their bleating dams
'Mongst kids shall trip it round;
For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsman, your neat bugles shrilly,
Hounds make a lusty cry;
Spring up, you falconers, the 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 skies
How the proud bird flies,
And sousing, kills with a grace.
Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring.