SING his praises that doth keep 
   Our flocks from harm. 
Pan, the father of our sheep; 
   And arm in arm 
Tread we softly in a round, 
Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground 
Fills the music with her sound. 

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee 
   Thus do we sing! 
Thou who keep'st us chaste and free 
   As the young spring: 
Ever be thy honour spoke 
From that place the morn is broke 
To that place day doth unyoke!