a quarrel.
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"Adechat! las mies amous."
————
He.—my pretty Margaret, good day!
The mountain air is chill;
And if you guide your lambs this way,
The cold will do you ill.
She.—No, gentle friend, tho' cold I seem,
The air I need not fear;
It is the chillness of your stream
That runs so fresh and clear.
He.—The cock had not begun his song;
When with my flocks I came;
To meet you here I waited long—
Your haste was not the same.
She.—My lambs and I were in the mead
Before the break of day;
And you, methinks, have little need
To blame me for delay.
He.—My sheep, with many a ruddy streak,
And bells of jocund sound,
Heav'n knows, a lively music make,
Which can be heard far round.
Come, let our flocks be hither led,
Beneath this shade repair;
For you have butter, I have bread,
And we our meal will share.
Feed, pretty lambs, and feed, my sheep,
Awhile her flock beside,
And, as on flow'rs ye browse and sleep,
We'll leave you for a tide.
Thou, God of Love, who in the air,
Art hov'ring in our view,
Guard well our flocks, and to thy care
Oh! take two lovers too!
She.—No,—farewell till to-morrow, dear,
I may not now abide;
For if I longer tarry here,
My friends will surely chide.