 | Songs and ballads |  |
TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH.
Tripping down the field-path,
Early in the morn,
There I met my own love,
'Midst the golden corn;
Autumn winds were blowing,
As in frolic chase,
All her silken ringlets
Backward from her face,
Little time for speaking
Had she, for the wind,
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,
Ever swept behind.
Early in the morn,
There I met my own love,
'Midst the golden corn;
Autumn winds were blowing,
As in frolic chase,
All her silken ringlets
Backward from her face,
9
Had she, for the wind,
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,
Ever swept behind.
Still some sweet improvement
In her beauty shone;
Every graceful movement
Won me—one by one!
As the breath of Venus
Seemed the breeze of morn,
Blowing thus between us,
'Midst the golden corn.
Little time for wooing
Had we, for the wind
Still kept on undoing
What we sought to bind!
In her beauty shone;
Every graceful movement
Won me—one by one!
As the breath of Venus
Seemed the breeze of morn,
Blowing thus between us,
'Midst the golden corn.
Little time for wooing
Had we, for the wind
Still kept on undoing
What we sought to bind!
Oh! that autumn morning
In my heart it beams,
Love's last look adorning
With its dream of dreams!
Still like waters flowing
In the ocean shell—
Sounds of breezes blowing
In my spirit dwell!
Still I see the field-path;—
Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty
Lost is now to me!
In my heart it beams,
Love's last look adorning
With its dream of dreams!
Still like waters flowing
In the ocean shell—
Sounds of breezes blowing
In my spirit dwell!
10
Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty
Lost is now to me!
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