The whistling Boy that holds the plough,
Lured by the tale that soldiers tell,
Resolves to part, yet knows not how
To leave the land he loves so well.
He now rejects the thought, and now
Looks o’er the lea, and sighs “Farewell!”
“Farewell!” the pensive Maiden cries,
Who dreams of London, dreams awake— 50
But, when her favourite Lad she spies,
With whom she loved her way to take: