HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers, 
Wait on 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 a prince's 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 huntsmen, 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!