Are all forgot the while.
You may roam for hours 'mid sweet spring flowers,
With a gurgling "beck" beneath,
While the rustling breeze just parts the trees,
And reveals the sweep of the wild woods deep,
Shut in the darkling heath.
You may hear the note of the blackbird float,
From the top of each tall ash tree,
When he pours his song each evening long;
For in "true love" tales such romantic dales,