And as he was singing, these words he did say,
No life is like the plowman’s in the month of May.
The lark in the morning rises from her nest,
And mounts in the air with the dew on her breast,
And with the jolly plowman she’ll whistle and she’ll sing,
And at night she’ll return to her nest back again.
If you walk in the fields any pleasure to find,
You may see what the plowman enjoys in his mind;
There the corn he sows grows and the flowers do spring,
And the plowman’s as happy as a prince or a king.