How falls it, then, we no merrier bene,
Alike as others, girt in gaudy green?
Our bloncket liveries be all too sad
For thilk same season, when all is yclad
With pleasance; the ground with grass, the woods
With green leaves, the bushes with blooming buds.
Youth's folk now flocken in every where,
To gather May-buskets and smelling brere;
And home they hasten the posts to dight,
And all the kirk-pillars ere day-light,