Hushed in silence through the day,
Whisper in the night of May,
While in vain the pink-lipped shell,
Murmuring in its hollow cell,
Would its own love-story tell.
Through the drifting apple-snow,
Where the four-leafed clovers grow,
Hand in hand they homeward go;
And they vow, whate'er the weather,
Mid the brier, through the heather,