Make haste, you reapers, one and all,
   True merry souls we'll be,
The shepherd and the woodman call,
   And Meg and Marjorie;
Bring out the whistle and the reed,
   The posy and the crown,
And trip it on the level mead
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

Thou, ruddy-tinted gipsy swain,
   With the hazel harvest-dye,
Go into the yellow-banded plain,
   Where the lads and lassie hie;
Where the red-leaved poppies wither
   In the golden barley-crown,
And bring them back together
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

First, on the velvet of the green,
   While the western summits smoke,
Appoint the lovely harvest queen
   By the hundred-jointed oak;
In her lily hand the sceptre,
   And on her head the crown,
With ivy twine, and creeping vine,
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

Bring roses some, and hazel nuts,
   And leaves and berries all,
And russets from the bough that juts
   High over the western wall;
And brave queen-apples, rosy-ripe,
   The fittest for a crown,
And wildings with the ruddy stripe
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

And some into the garden plot,
   If any will that way,
Where the purple-eyed forget-me-not,
   And the autumn primrose stray,
And pluck them with a greedy hand,
   As gems unto a crown,
For the lady-lily of the land,
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

'Tis labour when the hour is long,
   In the fierce and blinding ray,
To worship at the shrine of song,
   And hold the middle way;
Then gather all together,
   And bring the harvest crown,
For night soon hastens hither
   When the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

Bring out the lordly wassail-bowl
   That raises to divine,
Crowned with the purple-streaming soul,
   Of the blood-red harvest vine;
There's one gate leads to sorrow,
   And another to renown,
But 'tis long until to-morrow
   When the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

Shorter version (1925):

Make haste, you reapers, one and all,
   True merry souls we'll be,
The shepherd and the woodman call,
   And Meg and Marjorie;
Bring out the whistle and the reed,
   The posy and the crown,
And trip it on the level mead
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

There's Stella, and Bella,
   And Bess, and Priscilla,
And Daisy, and Lily,
   There's Tom, and there's Willie,
And all the young fools of the town.

Bring roses some, and hazel nuts,
   And leaves and berries all,
And russets from the bough that juts
   High over the western wall;
And brave queen-apples, rosy-ripe,
   The fittest for a crown,
And wildings with the ruddy stripe
   Ere the jolly sun goes down.

Call forth the lordly wassail-bowl
   That raises to divine,
Crowned with the purple-streaming soul,
   Of the blood-red harvest vine;
There's one gate leads to sorrow,
   And another to renown,
But 'tis long until to-morrow
   When the jolly sun goes down.