Song and Chorus of Villagers

Drifted snow no more is seen, Blust'ring winter passes by; Merry spring comes clad in green, While woodlarks pour their melody: I hear him!—hark! The merry lark Calls us to the new-mown hay, Piping to our roundelay.

When the golden sun appears On the mountain's surly brow; When his jolly beams he rears, Darting joy; behold them now.— Then, then,—oh hark! The merry lark Calls us to the new-mown hay, Piping to our roundelay.

When the village-boy to field, Tramps it with the buxom lass, Fain she would not seem to yield, Yet gets her tumble on the grass. Then, then,—oh hark! The merry lark, While they tumble in the hay. Pipes alone his roundela.

What are honours? what's a court? Calm content is worth them all; Our honour lies in cudgel sport, Yet gets her tumble on the grass: But then,—Oh hark! The merry lark Calls us to the new-mown hay, Piping to our roundelay.