The chough and crow to roost are gone,
  The owl sits on the tree, 
The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,
  Like infant charity. 
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
  The red star sheds its ray ; 
Uprouse ye then, my merry men ! 
  It is our op'ning day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
  And closed is every flower, 
And winking tapers faintly peep
  High from my lady's bower; 
Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken
  Shrink on their murky way ; 
Uprouse ye then, my merry men !
  It is our op'ning day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
  Nor roof nor latchèd door, 
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow
  To bless a good man's store ; 
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
  And night is grown our day; 
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
  And use it as ye may.