‘He comes no more a-wooing.’”
IN THE FIELDS GROWS THE RYE
In the fields grows the rye, rye that is green, is green—
“Tell me, my lover, how livest thou, when never my face is seen?”
“Out in the fields, down-beaten, rye lies upon its face—
So do I live without thee, the good Lord giving His grace.”
On the crest of the hill is the rye, cut high on its blooming stem:
Down below is a well where the horses drink water drawn for them.
“With thy breath the water is blown; pray why dost thou not drink?”
“Of what, O young black-browed girl, of what now dost thou think?”