SONG AND CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.
1 Wom. Drifted snow no more is seen;
Blust'ring Winter passes by;
Merry Spring comes clad in green,
While woodlarks pour their melody.
I hear him! hark!
The merry lark,
Calls us to the new mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.
2 Vil. When the golden sun appears,
On the mountain's surly brow;
When his jolly beams he rears,
Darting joy—behold them now!—
Then, then, oh, hark!—
The merry lark
Calls us to the new mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.
3 Vil. When the village boy, to field,
Tramps it with the buxom lass,
Fain she would not seem to yield,
Yet gets her tumble on the grass:
Then, then, oh, hark!
The merry lark,
While they tumble in the hay,
Pipes alone his roundelay.
4 Vil. What are honours? What's a court?
Calm content is worth them all:—
Our honour lies in cudgel sport;
Our brightest court a green-sward ball.
But then—oh hark!
The merry lark,
Calls us to the new mown hay,
Piping to our roundelay.
[Exeunt.