Finds the softest paths where her feet may walk,
Stays her to rest in the sheltered nook,
Guides her carefully over the brook,
Lifts her tenderly over the stile,
Speaking so cheerily all the while!
And plucks the prettiest wild flowers there
To deck the curls of her golden hair.
Says the joyful maid, “Not a flower that grows
Is so fair for me as the sweet wild rose!”
Thus journeying on by greenwood and dell,