Strike up the tabour for the wenches’ favour
Tickle it, tickle it, lustily.
Let us be seen upon Hygate Greene,
To dance for the honour of Holloway:
Since we are come hither let us spare for no leather
To dance for the honour of Holloway.”
And there is the old song of the folk—the oldest that has come down to us. The pipe plays the air, the tabor beats an accompaniment, the singers march down the street wearing garlands and carrying green branches, to welcome the coming of spring:—
“Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu
Groweth sed and bloweth med,