SING his praises that doth keep   Our flocks from harm. Pan, the father of our sheep;   And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee   Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free   As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke From that place the morn is broke To that place day doth unyoke!