———
Let us go to the dewy mountain, love,
’Tis the time of the Maying weather;
The lark is up in the blue above,
The thrush in the briery heather;
From the cottage elm the robin calls —
List, love, to the gentle warning —
We’ll away to the mountain waterfalls,
And drink the dew of the morning.
Let us go to the tangled greenwood fair,