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