| When my Beloved the cup in hand taketh |
|
|
| Him, unto whom the goblet Of wine clear red They give |
|
|
| There's none to our Friend for good faith And fashions fair ever attaineth |
|
|
| Companions, the comrade, the night time Who watched with you, bear ye |
|
|
| The World with the new moon decketh The Festival's eyebrow-bend |
|
|
| Day breaketh and donneth the cloud-veil white |
|
|
| For our pain no cure, ywis, is. Help! Oh, help! |
|
|
| If, o East wind, o'er the Ares' Plain to pass to thee befall |
|
|
| Our fortune in this city We've proven many a year |
|
|
| Skinker, bring wine, for the month Of fasting and prayer hath past |
|
|