 | Art and Fashion |  |
308
WAIT TILL I PUT ON MY BONNET.
My father loves counting his cattle,
My mother, she's fond of her chair,
But I, oh! I dote upon moonlight,
Sweet walks, and the soft quiet air;
The field with the dew-star upon it,
The scent of the newly-mown hay;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.
My mother, she's fond of her chair,
But I, oh! I dote upon moonlight,
Sweet walks, and the soft quiet air;
The field with the dew-star upon it,
The scent of the newly-mown hay;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.
The day was intended for labour,
But night was a gift to the heart;
When neighbour might visit with neighbour,
And love have its whisper apart:
Then life finds a bloom still upon it,
And time walks in silver array;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.
But night was a gift to the heart;
When neighbour might visit with neighbour,
And love have its whisper apart:
309
And time walks in silver array;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.
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