Classic Poem

A branch of may, it does look gay,
As before your door it stands;
It is but a sprout, but it's well spread about,
By the work of our poor hands.

I have a bag upon my arm,
It is drawn with a silken string;
It only wants a few more pence
To line it well within.

Arise, arise, my pretty fair maids,
And take our may bush in,
For if it is gone before morning comes
You'll say we have never been.

Come give us a jug of your sweet cream,
Or a jug of your brown beer,
And if we live to tarry the town,
We'll call another year.