| |
| UP the dale and down the bourne, | |
| O’er the meadow swift we fly; | |
| Now we sing, and now we mourn, | |
| Now we whistle, now we sigh. | |
| |
| By the grassy-fringed river | 5 |
| Through the murmuring reeds we sweep, | |
| Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, | |
| To their very hearts we creep. | |
| |
| Now the maiden rose is blushing | |
| At the frolic things we say, | 10 |
| While aside her cheek we ’re rushing, | |
| Like some truant bees at play. | |
| |
| Through the blooming groves we rustle, | |
| Kissing every bud we pass,— | |
| As we did it in the bustle, | 15 |
| Scarcely knowing how it was. | |
| |
| Down the glen, across the mountain, | |
| O’er the yellow heath we roam, | |
| Whirling round about the fountain | |
| Till its little breakers foam. | 20 |
| |
| Bending down the weeping willows, | |
| While our vesper hymn we sigh; | |
| Then unto our rosy pillows | |
| On our weary wings we hie. | |
| |
| There of idlenesses dreaming, | 25 |
| Scarce from waking we refrain, | |
| Moments long as ages deeming | |
| Till we ’re at our play again. | |
| |
