Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
   Wait upon 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 princes' 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 huntsman, 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.