At eve last Midsummer, no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of Hempseed brought;
I scattered round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent cried:
“This Hempseed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my True-love be, the crop shall mow!”
I straight looked back, and if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth!
With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice, around, around, around!