Cold's the wind

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed ;
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee ;
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down,
Close with the tenor, boy ;
Ho ! well done, to me let come,
Ring compass, gentle joy.
Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind, &c. (As often as there be men to drink.)

(At last, when all have drunk, this verse.)

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed ;
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

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