As wretches in a storm, expecting day,

With trembling hands and eyes cast up to heaven

Make prayers the anchor of their conquered hopes,

So we, dear goddess, wonder of all eyes,

Your meanest vassals, through mistrust and fear

5

To sink into the bottom of disgrace

By our imperfect pastimes, prostrate thus

On bended knees our sails of hope do strike,

Dreading the bitter storms of your dislike.

Since, then, unhappy men, our hap is such

10

That to ourselves ourselves no help can bring,

But needs must perish if your saint-like ears,

Locking the temple where all mercy sits,

Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues:

O grant, bright mirror of true chastity,

15

From those life-breathing stars your sun-like eyes

One gracious smile; for your celestial breath

Must send us life, or sentence us to death.

O the month of May, the merry month of May,

So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green;

O and then did I unto my true love say,

Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer’s queen.

Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,

5

The sweetest singer in all the forest’s choir,

Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love’s tale –

Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a briar.

But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo;

See where she sitteth – come away, my joy.

10

Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo

Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.

O the month of May, the merry month of May,

So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green;

And then did I unto my true love say,

15

Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer’s queen.

Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain,

Saint Hugh be our good speed.

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,

Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,

5

And here, kind mate, to thee.

Let’s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh’s soul,

And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey down-a-down,

Hey derry-derry, down-a-down,

10

Ho, well done, to me let come,

Ring compass, gentle joy.

Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind etc. (as often as there be men to drink)

Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain,

15

Saint Hugh be our good speed.

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,

Nor helps good hearts in need.