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Sometimes we dance upon the shore,
The thunder's noise is our delight,
About the moon we make a ring,
But when we ’d hunt away our cares,
Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds, With thick black clouds to rest our heads, And flood the earth with our dark showers, That did but sprinkle these our bowers.
Thus, having done with orbs and sky,
Next turn'd to mites in cheese,
forsooth, We get into some hollow tooth ; Wherein, as in a Christmas hall, We frisk and dance, the devil and all.
Then we change our wily features,
IN SUMMER TIME.
Tom D'URFEY, born 1628, died 1723.
In summer time, when flow'rs do spring,
And birds sit on each tree,
There's Tom with Nell,
Our music is a little pipe,
That can so sweetly play ;
On Sabbath days,
Come, play us Adam and Eve,” says Dick, " What's that ?
says little Pipe; "The Beginning of the World," 1 quoth Dick, “For we are dancing-ripe ;"
“Is 't that you call ?
O’er hills and dales, to Whitsun-ales,
We dance a merry fytte;
She gives him hit for hit
1 A favourite dance-tune in the seventeenth century.
From head to foot
My lord's son must not be forgot,
So full of merry jest ;
No time is spent
We oft go to Sir William's ground,
And a rich old cub is he;
From thence we get
We fear no plots of Jews or Scots,
For we are jolly swains ;
No city cares,
On meads and lawns we trip like fauns,
Like fillies, kids, and lambs ;
When the day is spent,
and skip it,
SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN.
Country Dances," 1651.
I heard a merry meeting ;
Two noblemen were greeting.
And as they walked forth to shoot,
Upon a summer's day,
With whom they had a fray.
His name was Sir John Barleycorn,
He dwelt down in a dale;
They called him Thomas Good-ale.
Another named Richard Beer,
Was ready at that time;
Call’d Sir William White-wine.
Some of them fought in a black-jack,
Some of them in a can;
Like a worthy nobleman.
Sir Barleycorn fought in a bowl,
Who won the victory;
That Barleycorn should die.
Some said " kill him," some said drown,"
Others wished to hang him high, For as many as follow Barley-corn,
Shall surely beggars die.
Then with a plough they ploughed him up,
And this they did devise,
And swore he should not rise.
With harrows strong they combed him,
And thrust clods on his head, A joyful banquet then was made,
When Barley-corn was dead.
He rested still within the earth,
Till rain from skies did fall, Then he grew up in branches green,
Which sore amazed them all.
And so grew up till Midsummer ;
He made them all afraid, For he was sprouted up on high,
And got a goodly beard.
Then he grew till St. James's-tide,
His countenance was wan;
And thus became a man.
With hooks and eke with sickles keen,
Unto the fields they hied, They cut his legs off by the knees,
And made him wounds full wide.
Thus bloodily they cut him down,
From place where he did stand, And like a thief for treachery,
They bound him in a band.
According to his kind,