The swallows were feathering their nests in Algiers.
She looked in his face, and she burst into tears!
His nose it was pinched, and his lips they were blue.
Said she: ‘I can’t love you!’ Said he: ‘Nor I you!’
’Twas spring-time when next they stood on the bridge,
And white was the pear-tree, and green was the ridge;
The swallows had thoughts of a speedy return;
And the midges were dancing a-down the brown burn.
He said: ‘Pretty maiden, let by-gones go by—
Can you love me again?’ She said: ‘I can try.’