When the bloom was on the rye.
The year is waning fast, my love;
The leaves are in the sere;
The fog-horns now are humming, love;
And the moonshine's "moonshine," dear.
But, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane,
I never will "say die";—
Come, meet me, meet me in our parlour,
Where the bloom is on the fly.
Just name your day, that mother may