Who would lie down and close his eyes
While yet the lark sings o’er the dale?
Who would to Love make no replies,
Nor drink the nut-brown ale,
While throbs the pulse, and full’s the purse
And all the world’s for sale?

Though wintry blasts may prove unkind,
When winter’s past we do forget;
Love’s breast in summer-time is kind,
And all’s well while life’s with us yet.
Hey ho, now the lark is mating—
Life’s sweet wages are in waiting!