Yet must we sing them, as good stuff, I undertake,
As for such a pen-man is well fitting to make.
"Ah, for these long nights! heigho! when will it be day?
I fear, ere I come, she will be wooed away."
Then, when answer is made, that it may not be,
"O death, why comest thou not?" by and by saith he.
But then from his heart to put away sorrow,
He is as far in with some new love next morrow.
But, in the mean season, we trudge and we trot:
From dayspring to midnight I sit not nor rest not.