IN somer when the shawes be sheyne, 
   And leves be large and long, 
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste 
   To here the foulys song. 

To se the dere draw to the dale 
   And leve the hilles hee, 
And shadow him in the leves grene 
   Under the green-wode tree. 

Hit befell on Whitsontide 
   Early in a May mornyng, 
The Sonne up faire can shyne, 
   And the briddis mery can syng. 

'This is a mery mornyng,' said Litulle Johne, 
   'Be Hym that dyed on tre; 
A more mery man than I am one 
   Lyves not in Christiante. 

'Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,' 
   Litulle Johne can say, 
'And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme 
   In a mornynge of May.'