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He listened at the porch that day,

To hear the wheel go on, and on.- Page 63.

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What would the bee do without the rose,

And the honey hid mid her fragile leaves? What would the bird do without her nest?

And the summer day without the breeze?

What would the night do without the stars,
And the misty moon in her silver bed?
What would the heart do without its tears?
What would the world do if Love had fled?


O where are you going so early? he said;
Good luck go with you, my pretty maid;
To tell you my mind I'm half afraid,
But I wish I were your sweetheart.
When the morning sun is shining low,
And the cocks in every farmyard crow,
I'll carry your pail,

O'er hill and dale,

And I'll go with you a-milking.

I'm going a-milking, sir, says she,
Through the dew, and across the lea;
You ne'er would even yourself to me,
Or take me for your sweetheart.
When the morning sun, &c.


Now give me your milking-stool awhile,
To carry it down to yonder stile;
I'm wishing every step a mile,

And myself your only sweetheart.

O, here's the stile in-under the tree,
And there's the path in the grass for me,
And I thank you kindly, sir, says she,
And wish you a better sweetheart.

Now give me your milking-pail, says he, And while we're going across the lea, Pray reckon your master's cows to me, Although I'm not your sweetheart.

Two of them red, and two of them white,
Two of them yellow and silky bright,
She told him her master's cows aright,
Though he was not her sweetheart.

She sat and milk'd in the morning sun,
And when her milking was over and done,
She found him waiting, all as one
As if he were her sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.



Five months ago, the stream did flow,
The lilies bloomed within the sedge,
And we were lingering to and fro,
Where none will track thee in this snow,
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go!
For if I do not hear thy foot,

The frozen river is as mute,

The flowers have dried down to the root: And why, since these be changed since May, Shouldst thou change less than they?

And slow, slow as the winter snow,
The tears have drifted to mine eyes:
And my poor cheeks, five months ago
Set blushing at thy praises so,

Put paleness on for a disguise.
Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go!
For if my face is turned too pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail,
It was thy love proved false and frail:
And why, since these be changed enow,
Should I change less than thou?

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