SONG OF MINSTERWORTH
SONG OF MINSTERWORTH
Air: “The Vicar of Bray”
In olden, olden centuriesOn Gloucester’s holy ground, sir,The monks did pray and chant all day,And grow exceeding round, sir;And here’s the reason that they throveTo praise their pleasant fortune,“We keep our beasts”—thus quoth the priests,“In Minsterworth—that’s Mortune!”[1]So this is the chorus we will sing,And this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.Oh! there in sleepy Summer soundsThe drowsy drone of bees, sir,And there in Winter paints the sunHis patterns ’neath the trees, sir;And there with merry song doth runA river full of fish, sir,That Thursday sees upon the floodAnd Friday on the dish, sir.So this is the chorus we will singAnd this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.The jovial priests to dust are gone,We cannot hear their singing;But still their merry chorus-songFrom newer lips runs ringing.And we who drink the sunny airAnd see the blossoms drifting,Will sit and sing the self-same thingUntil the roof we’re lifting.So this is the chorus we will sing,And this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.
In olden, olden centuriesOn Gloucester’s holy ground, sir,The monks did pray and chant all day,And grow exceeding round, sir;And here’s the reason that they throveTo praise their pleasant fortune,“We keep our beasts”—thus quoth the priests,“In Minsterworth—that’s Mortune!”[1]So this is the chorus we will sing,And this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.Oh! there in sleepy Summer soundsThe drowsy drone of bees, sir,And there in Winter paints the sunHis patterns ’neath the trees, sir;And there with merry song doth runA river full of fish, sir,That Thursday sees upon the floodAnd Friday on the dish, sir.So this is the chorus we will singAnd this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.The jovial priests to dust are gone,We cannot hear their singing;But still their merry chorus-songFrom newer lips runs ringing.And we who drink the sunny airAnd see the blossoms drifting,Will sit and sing the self-same thingUntil the roof we’re lifting.So this is the chorus we will sing,And this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.
In olden, olden centuriesOn Gloucester’s holy ground, sir,The monks did pray and chant all day,And grow exceeding round, sir;And here’s the reason that they throveTo praise their pleasant fortune,“We keep our beasts”—thus quoth the priests,“In Minsterworth—that’s Mortune!”[1]
In olden, olden centuries
On Gloucester’s holy ground, sir,
The monks did pray and chant all day,
And grow exceeding round, sir;
And here’s the reason that they throve
To praise their pleasant fortune,
“We keep our beasts”—thus quoth the priests,
“In Minsterworth—that’s Mortune!”[1]
So this is the chorus we will sing,And this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.
So this is the chorus we will sing,
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to.
Oh! there in sleepy Summer soundsThe drowsy drone of bees, sir,And there in Winter paints the sunHis patterns ’neath the trees, sir;And there with merry song doth runA river full of fish, sir,That Thursday sees upon the floodAnd Friday on the dish, sir.
Oh! there in sleepy Summer sounds
The drowsy drone of bees, sir,
And there in Winter paints the sun
His patterns ’neath the trees, sir;
And there with merry song doth run
A river full of fish, sir,
That Thursday sees upon the flood
And Friday on the dish, sir.
So this is the chorus we will singAnd this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.
So this is the chorus we will sing
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to.
The jovial priests to dust are gone,We cannot hear their singing;But still their merry chorus-songFrom newer lips runs ringing.And we who drink the sunny airAnd see the blossoms drifting,Will sit and sing the self-same thingUntil the roof we’re lifting.
The jovial priests to dust are gone,
We cannot hear their singing;
But still their merry chorus-song
From newer lips runs ringing.
And we who drink the sunny air
And see the blossoms drifting,
Will sit and sing the self-same thing
Until the roof we’re lifting.
So this is the chorus we will sing,And this is the spot we’ll drink to,While blossom blows and Severn flows,And Earth has mugs to clink to.
So this is the chorus we will sing,
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to.
[1]The ancient name of the parish was Mortune—that is, the village in the mere; and the name was changed to Minsterworth early in the fourteenth century because it belonged to the Minster or Abbey of Gloucester, and was the Minster’s “Worth” or farm where the cattle were kept.—F. W. H.
[1]The ancient name of the parish was Mortune—that is, the village in the mere; and the name was changed to Minsterworth early in the fourteenth century because it belonged to the Minster or Abbey of Gloucester, and was the Minster’s “Worth” or farm where the cattle were kept.—F. W. H.