Hoo-hoo the woodmen all unite
    To shout, as trees they fell. 
  They do their work with all their might;—­
    What I have done I’ll tell. 
  I’ve strained and made my spirits clear,
    The fatted lambs I’ve killed. 
  With friends who my own surname bear,
    My hall I’ve largely filled. 
  Some may be absent, casually,
    And leave a broken line;
  But better this than absence by
    An oversight of mine. 
  My court I’ve sprinkled and swept clean,
    Viands in order set. 
  Eight dishes loaded stand with grain;
    There’s store of fatted meat. 
  My mother’s kith and kin I’m sure
    I’ve widely called by name. 
  That some be hindered better is
    Than I give cause for blame.

  On the hill-side the trees they fell,
    All working with good-will
  I labor too, with equal zeal. 
    And the host’s part fulfil. 
  Spirits I’ve set in order meet,
    The dishes stand in rows. 
  The guests are here; no vacant seat
    A brother absent shows. 
  The loss of kindly feeling oft
    From slightest things shall grow,
  Where all the fare is dry and spare,
    Resentments fierce may glow. 
  My store of spirits is well strained,
    If short prove the supply,
  My messengers I straightway send,
    And what is needed buy. 
  I beat the drums, and in the dance
    Lead joyously the train. 
  Oh! good it is, when falls the chance
    The sparkling cup to drain.

The Response to a Festal Ode

  Heaven shields and sets thee fast. 
  It round thee fair has cast
    Thy virtue pure. 
  Thus richest joy is thine;—­
  Increase of corn and wine,
  And every gift divine,
    Abundant, sure.

  Heaven shields and sets thee fast. 
  From it thou goodness hast;
    Right are thy ways. 
  Its choicest gifts ’twill pour,
  That last for evermore,
  Nor time exhaust the store
    Through endless days.

  Heaven shields and sets thee fast,
  Makes thine endeavor last
    And prosper well. 
  Like hills and mountains high,
  Whose masses touch the sky;
  Like streams aye surging by;
    Thine increase swell!

  With rite and auspice fair,
  Thine offerings thou dost bear,
    And son-like give,
  The season’s round from spring,
  To olden duke and king,
  Whose words to thee we bring:—­
    “Forever live,”

  The spirits of thy dead
  Pour blessings on thy head,
    Unnumbered sweet. 
  Thy subjects, simple, good,
  Enjoy their drink and food. 
  Our tribes of every blood
    Follow thy feet.

  Like moons that wax in light;
  Or suns that scale the height;
    Or ageless hill;
  Nor change, nor autumn know;
  As pine and cypress grow;
  The sons that from thee flow
    Be lasting still!