At rise of sun, I rouse myself,
In need of newness, I descend the stair,
The grain and whey are stirred in the cup,
Mine eyes do see, the morn passant,
The ticking of the clock putteth all in haste,
To fetch up a place in a waggon,
And lo, some auld acquaintance do appear
Possess’d of a carriage.
A place atop,
Or forsooth, within,
I must chuse that
Which best doth suit.
For it is Friday,
The joy of which is the Jew’s Sabbath and the Sunday,
Verily, it is Friday,
The joy of which is the Jew’s Sabbath and the Sunday.
Celebrations, yea verily!
Celebrations, forsooth!
Felicity and pleasure abound in one
Espying the Sabbath and Sunday.
(Someone else carry on please, else let it die.)