“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town;
“I am going a-milking, sir,” she said.
A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down.
“May I be your escort, my pretty maid?
Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red;
To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid,
And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.”
“What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid,
And around her lips a merry smile played.