Honey is made by the bee;
Past bitterness borne of life's sorrow,
When we linger on tragedy,
We'll sure be sad the morrow.

At dawn in the bower she cries;
The Nightingale's song augurs sadly,
At twilight far she flies,
So I'll be gone more gladly.

The turtledoves cooing again;
In our hearts their melodies echo,
With every teasing refrain,
So tender, so loving, so mellow.

The meadow that blooms in the spring;
The High Field laying fallow,
A true purpose to everything,
A joy to every fellow.

Arrayed along in the lane;
Rose briers, the hawthorn and sallow,
Recalling all of our pain,
Still, just as well we're shallow.

Lust is God's gift to the goat;
Swift wings a boon to the swallow,
When I can find me a boat,
Then I'll be gone tomorrow.




Church Choirboys that murmur so holy;
The bulls in the meadow that bellow,
Sounding so dire melancholy,
They bring hope to every fellow.

When flowers bloom bright in the spring;
Life's bountiful harvest will follow,
Whenever church bells ring-a-ding,
We'll have faith in our tomorrow.

Swift fishes that swim up the stream;
Green frogs that lie in their shallow,
Are part of great nature's scheme,
With a joy in every - "Hello!".

Patience is quite like a shield;
To the gardener tending his marrow,
Or the farmer seeking to wield
The scythe, the plough and the harrow.

The weaver alone on his loom;
The blacksmith's raging bellows,
The pearly face of the Moon, and
The Sun, in brilliant yellows.

Lust is God's gift to the goat;
Swift wings a boon to the swallow,
When I can find me a boat,
Then I'll be gone tomorrow.





Along the murmuring stream;
The rowan, the hazel and black sloe,
Are all part of nature's scheme,
Bestowing solace from every sorrow.

Love is a marvellous thing;
It finds its home in every hollow,
What you expect it will bring,
A firm faith that you can follow.

Within the rooftops and eaves;
Quiet haven to the sparrow,
Sail high the bright autumn leaves,
Awaiting my wheelbarrow.

The sludge in the sickening shade;
Where the wild boar is known to wallow,
The pledges that we once made,
Oft broken with the morrow.

The ravens, the crows and the lark;
A hedgehog that's snug in his hollow,
At cockcrow the dogs will bark,
Now I'll be gone tomorrow.

Lust is God's gift to the goat;
Swift wings a boon to the swallow,
When I can find me a boat,
Then I'll be gone tomorrow.