Beaten and slain! Yes, but England hath heed of him, Singer of high degree, master of thought and of word-- She shall bear witness with tears, of the pride and the loss and the need of him; We shall measure the years by the voice and the song unheard.
When blows the wind and drives the sleet, And all the trees droop down; When all the world is sad, ‘tis meet Good company be known: And, in my heart, good company Sits by the fire and sings to me.
When warriors return, and one That went returns no more; When dusty is the road we run, And garners have no store; One ingle-nook right warm shall be Where my heart hath good company.
When man shall flee and woman fail, And folly mock and hope deceive, Let cowards beat the breast and wail, I’ll homeward hie; I will not grieve: I’ll curtains draw, I’ll there set free My heart’s beloved boon company.
When kings shall favour, ladies call My service to their side; When roses grow upon the wall Of life, and love inside; I’ll get me home with joy to be In my heart’s own good company!
King Rufus he did hunt the deer, With a hey ho, come and kiss me, Dolly! It was the spring-time of the year-- Hey ho, Dolly shut her eyes! King Rufus was a bully boy, He hunted all the day for joy, Sweet Dolly she was ever coy: And who would e’er be wise That looked in Dolly’s eyes?
King Rufus he did have his day, With a hey ho, come and kiss me, Dolly! So get ye forth where dun deer play-- Hey ho, Dolly comes again! The greenwood is the place for me, For that is where the dun deer be, And who would stay at home, That might with Dolly roam? Sing hey ho, come and kiss me, Dolly!
Who would lie down and close his eyes While yet the lark sings o’er the dale? Who would to Love make no replies, Nor drink the nut-brown ale, While throbs the pulse, and full’s the purse And all the world’s for sale?
Though wintry blasts may prove unkind, When winter’s past we do forget; Love’s breast in summer-time is kind, And all’s well while life’s with us yet. Hey ho, now the lark is mating-- Life’s sweet wages are in waiting!
Come hither, oh come hither, There’s a bride upon her bed; They have strewn her o’er with roses, There are roses ‘neath her head: Life is love and tears and laughter, But the laughter it is dead-- Sing the way to the Valley, to the Valley-- Hey, but the roses they are red!