“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel—
Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;
Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,
Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.
The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;
While all the air rings with the soft loving things
Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”
With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,
Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;