 | Songs and ballads |  |
53
THE MEADOW GATE.
The bluebell peeps beneath the fern,
The moor its purple blossom yields,
'T is worth full six days' work to earn
A ramble 'mid the woods and fields:
There is an hour to silence dear,
An hour for which a king might wait;
It is to meet when no one's near,
My Mary by the meadow gate.
The moor its purple blossom yields,
'T is worth full six days' work to earn
A ramble 'mid the woods and fields:
There is an hour to silence dear,
An hour for which a king might wait;
It is to meet when no one's near,
My Mary by the meadow gate.
When love inspires the linnet's breast,
How swift he speeds from spray to spray;
His song is of his woodland nest,
Far hidden from the peep of day.
Would such a nest were my sweet lot,
Would I might be some dear one's mate;
I'd ask, to share my lowly cot,
My Mary by the meadow gate.
How swift he speeds from spray to spray;
His song is of his woodland nest,
Far hidden from the peep of day.
Would such a nest were my sweet lot,
Would I might be some dear one's mate;
I'd ask, to share my lowly cot,
My Mary by the meadow gate.
There is a tide the streamlet seeks,
A full mile from its course it veers,
And into silvery music breaks,
When from the vale the sea appears.
Oh! twenty miles my eager feet
Would wander long and linger late,
One happy moment but to meet
My Mary by the meadow gate.
A full mile from its course it veers,
And into silvery music breaks,
When from the vale the sea appears.
Oh! twenty miles my eager feet
Would wander long and linger late,
One happy moment but to meet
My Mary by the meadow gate.
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