Young Jenny wakens at the dawn,
Fresh as carnations newly blown,
And o'er the pasture every morn
Goes milking o' the kye.
She sings her songs of happy glee,
While round her swirls the humble bee;
The butterfly, from tree to tree,
Goes gaily flirting by.
Young Jenny was a bonny thing
As ever wakened in the Spring,
And blythe she to herself could sing
At milking o' the kye.
She loved to hear the old crows croak
Upon the ash tree and the oak,
And noisy pies that almost spoke
At milking o' the kye.
She crop't the wild thyme every night,
Scenting so sweet the dewy light,
And hid it in her breast so white
At milking o' the kye.
I met and clasped her in my arms,
The finest flower on twenty farms;
Her snow-white breast my fancy warms
At milking o' the kye.
A LOVER'S VOWS
Scenes of love and days of pleasure,
I must leave them all, lassie.
Scenes of love and hours of leisure,
All are gone for aye, lassie.
No more thy velvet-bordered dress
My fond and longing een shall bless,
Thou lily in the wilderness;
And who shall love thee then, lassie?
Long I've watched thy look so tender,
Often clasped thy waist so slender:
Heaven, in thine own love defend her,
God protect my own lassie.
By all the faith I've shown afore thee,
I'll swear by more than that, lassie:
By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee,
Though we should part for aye, lassie!
By thy infant years so loving,
By thy woman's love so moving,
That white breast thy goodness proving,
I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!
By the sun that shines for ever,
By love's light and its own Giver,
Who loveth truth and leaveth never,
I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!
THE FALL OF THE YEAR
The Autumn's come again,
And the clouds descend in rain,
And the leaves are fast falling in the wood;
The Summer's voice is still,
Save the clacking of the mill
And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.
There's nothing in the mead
But the river's muddy speed,
And the willow leaves all littered by its side.
Sweet voices are all still
In the vale and on the hill,
And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.
Fled is the cuckoo's note
To countries far remote,
And the nightingale is vanished from the woods;
If you search the lordship round
There is not a blossom found,
And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.