When the morning sun, &c.
O, here's the stile in-under the tree,
And there's the path in the grass for me,
And I thank you kindly, sir, says she,
And wish you a better sweetheart.
When the morning sun, &c.
Now give me your milking-pail, says he,
And while were going across the lea,
Pray reckon your master's cows to me,
Although I'm not your sweetheart.