I look upon the hedgerow flower, I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, I walk alone the silent hour, And think of Mary Appleby. I see her in the brimming streams, I see her in the gloaming hour, I hear her in my Summer dreams Of singing bird and blooming flower. For Mary is the dearest bird, And Mary is the sweetest flower, That in Spring bush was ever heard-- That ever bloomed on bank or bower. O bonny Mary Appleby! The sun did never sweeter shine Than when in youth I courted thee, And, dreaming, fancied you'd be mine. The lark above the meadow sings, Wood pigeons coo in ivied trees, The butterflies, on painted wings, Dance daily with the meadow bees. All Nature is in happy mood, The sueing breeze is blowing free. And o'er the fields, and by the wood, I think of Mary Appleby. O bonny Mary Appleby; My once dear Mary Appleby! A crown of gold thy own should be, My handsome Mary Appleby! Thy face is like the Summer rose, Its maiden bloom is all divine, And more than all the world bestows I'd give had Mary e'er been mine. AMONG THE GREEN BUSHES Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes Are answering each other in music and glee, While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks, Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree. There meet me at eve, love, we'll on grassy banks lean love, And crop a white branch from the scented may tree, Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples, Sweet will the time of that courting hour be. We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love, Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew; The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love, To Spring and each other so blooming and true. With dewdrops all beaded, the feather grass seeded, The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky; The daisy bud closes, while sleep the hedge roses; There's nothing seems wakeful but you love and I. Larks sleep in the rushes, linnets perch on the bushes, While mag's on her nest with her tail peeping out; The moon it reveals her, yet she thinks night conceals her, Though birdnesting boys are not roving about. The night winds won't wrong her, nor aught that belong her, For night is the nurse of all Nature in sleep; The moon, love, is keeping a watch o'er the sleeping, And dews for real pleasure do nothing but weep. Among the green bushes we'll sit with the thrushes, And blackbirds and linnets, an hour or two long, That are up at the dawning, by times in the morning, To cheer thee when milking with music and song. Then come at the eve, love, and where the banks lean, love, By the brook that flows on in its dribbles of song; While the moon looks so pale, love, and the trees look so hale, love, I will tell thee a tale, love, an hour or two long. TO JANE