Fain Would I Kiss My Julia's Dainty

The May-pole Is Up, Now Give Me The Cup; I'll Drink To The Garlands Around It; But First Unto Those Whose Hands Did Compose The Glory Of Flowers That Crown'd It.

You Say To Me-wards Your Affection's Strong; Pray Love Me Little, So You Love Me Long.

Humble We Must Be, If To Heaven We Go; High Is The Roof There, But The Gate Is Low.

Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.