UP the dale and down the bourne, | |
O’er the meadow swift we fly; | |
Now we sing, and now we mourn, | |
Now we whistle, now we sigh. | |
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By the grassy-fringed river | 5 |
Through the murmuring reeds we sweep, | |
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, | |
To their very hearts we creep. | |
|
Now the maiden rose is blushing | |
At the frolic things we say, | 10 |
While aside her cheek we ’re rushing, | |
Like some truant bees at play. | |
|
Through the blooming groves we rustle, | |
Kissing every bud we pass,— | |
As we did it in the bustle, | 15 |
Scarcely knowing how it was. | |
|
Down the glen, across the mountain, | |
O’er the yellow heath we roam, | |
Whirling round about the fountain | |
Till its little breakers foam. | 20 |
|
Bending down the weeping willows, | |
While our vesper hymn we sigh; | |
Then unto our rosy pillows | |
On our weary wings we hie. | |
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There of idlenesses dreaming, | 25 |
Scarce from waking we refrain, | |
Moments long as ages deeming | |
Till we ’re at our play again. |