In strawberries! strawberries!
That wait for us in Martin’s mead.
Then haste, before the sun be high,
And, haply, catch the morning star;
For, ere the cups of dew be dry,
The berries sweetest are.
And if, perchance, a rustic lass
In merriment a-milking pass,
It’s strawberries! strawberries!
On her lips as in the grass.