  When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lyra chants, With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay. But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night: And when I wander here and there, I then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give, And in the stocks avouch it. |
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