Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill, For if you do, you must drink two,—it is your master’s will. Now our harvest is ended, And supper is past; Here’s our mistress’ good health, In a full flowing glass! She is a good woman,— She prepared us good cheer; Come, all my brave boys, And drink off your beer. Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me, The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be! In yon green wood there lies an old fox, Close by his den you may catch him, or no; Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no. His beard and his brush are all of one colour,— [_Takes the glass and empties it off_. I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller. ’Tis down the red lane! ’tis down the red lane! So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane! {171} THE HAYMAKER’S SONG. [AN old and very favourite ditty sung in many parts of England at merry-makings, especially at those which occur during the hay-harvest. It is not in any collection.] IN the merry month of June, In the prime time of the year; Down in yonder meadows There runs a river clear: And many a little fish Doth in that river play; And many a lad, and many a lass, Go abroad a-making hay. In come the jolly mowers, To mow the meadows down; With budget and with bottle Of ale, both stout and brown, All labouring men of courage bold Come here their strength to try; They sweat and blow, and cut and mow, For the grass cuts very dry. Here’s nimble Ben and Tom, With pitchfork, and with rake; Here’s Molly, Liz, and Susan, Come here their hay to make. While sweet, jug, jug, jug! The nightingale doth sing, From morning unto even-song, As they are hay-making. And when that bright day faded, And the sun was going down, There was a merry piper Approachèd from the town: He pulled out his pipe and tabor, So sweetly he did play, Which made all lay down their rakes, And leave off making hay. Then joining in a dance, They jig it o’er the green; Though tired with their labour, No one less was seen. But sporting like some fairies, Their dance they did pursue, In leading up, and casting off, Till morning was in view. And when that bright daylight, The morning it was come, They lay down and rested Till the rising of the sun: Till the rising of the sun, When the merry larks do sing, And each lad did rise and take his lass, And away to hay-making. THE SWORD-DANCERS’ SONG.