In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow him in the leves grene
Under the green-wode tree.
Hit befell on Whitsontide
Early in a May mornyng,
The Soone up faire can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
‘This is a mery mornyng,’ said Litulle Johne,
‘Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Christiante.
‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’
Litulle Johne can say,
‘And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of May.’