ROBIN HOOD and Little John, They both are gone to the fair, O! And we will go to the merry green-wood, To see what they do there, O! And for to chase, O! To chase the buck and doe. With ha-lan-tow, rumble, O! For we were up as soon as any day, O! And for to fetch the summer home, The summer and the may, O! For summer is a-come, O! And winter is a-gone, O! Where are those Spaniards That make so great a boast, O? They shall eat the grey goose feather, And we will eat the roast, O! In every land, O! The land where’er we go. With ha-lan-tow, &c As for Saint George, O! Saint George he was a knight, O! Of all the knights in Christendom, Saint George is the right, O! In every land, O! The land where’er we go. With ha-lan-tow, &c. CORNISH MIDSUMMER BONFIRE SONG. [THE very ancient custom of lighting fires on Midsummer-eve, being the vigil of St. John the Baptist, is still kept up in several parts of Cornwall. On these occasions the fishermen and others dance about the fires, and sing appropriate songs. The following has been sung for a long series of years at Penzance and the neighbourhood, and is taken down from the recitation of the leader of a West-country choir. It is communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys. The origin of the Midsummer bonfires is fully explained in Brand’s _Popular Antiquities_. See Sir H. Ellis’s edition of that work, vol. i. pp. 166–186.] THE bonny month of June is crowned With the sweet scarlet rose; The groves and meadows all around With lovely pleasure flows. As I walked out to yonder green, One evening so fair; All where the fair maids may be seen Playing at the bonfire. Hail! lovely nymphs, be not too coy, But freely yield your charms; Let love inspire with mirth and joy, In Cupid’s lovely arms. Bright Luna spreads its light around, The gallants for to cheer; As they lay sporting on the ground, At the fair June bonfire. All on the pleasant dewy mead, They shared each other’s charms; Till Phoebus’ beams began to spread, And coming day alarms. Whilst larks and linnets sing so sweet, To cheer each lovely swain; Let each prove true unto their love, And so farewell the plain. SUFFOLK HARVEST-HOME SONG. [IN no part of England are the harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favourite on such occasions.] HERE’S a health unto our master, The founder of the feast! I wish, with all my heart and soul, In heaven he may find rest. I hope all things may prosper, That ever be takes in hand; For we are all his servants, And all at his command.