My soul will dance in gaiety.
Merriment shall reign supreme,
In every eye a joyous beam;
Mirth shall caper all day long,
In every heart an airy song.
Bid me to sing a round-a-lay
And I will trill to break of day
A Ballad, pastorale, stave or air
Or roulade to my Lady’s hair.
As blithesome lark from Morn’s pearl dew