With a glad, unselfish cry,
Though they'll buy it bitterly.

And the old are in the sun,
Seeing that the work is done
As it was when age was young;
And the harvest song is sung;
And the quaint and jocund tale
Takes the stint-key from the ale,
And as free and fast it runs
As a June rill from the sun's
Dry and ever-drinking mouth:--
Mirth doth alway feel a drowth.
Butt and barrel ceaseless flow
Fast as cans can come and go;
One with emptied measures comes
Drumming them with tuneful thumbs;
One reels field-ward, not quite sober,
With two cans of ripe October,
Some of last year's brewing, kept
Till the corn of this is reaped.

Now 'tis eve, and done all labour,
And to merry pipe and tabor,
Or to some cracked viol strummed
With vile skill, or table drummed
To the tune of some brisk measure,
Wont to stir the pulse to pleasure,
Men and maidens timely beat
The ringing ground with frolic feet;