The ground lark sung about the farms, The blackbird in the wood, When fast locked in each other's arms By hedgerow thorn we stood. It was a pleasant Sabbath day, The sun shone bright and round, His light through dark oaks passed, and lay Like gold upon the ground. How beautiful the blackbird sung, And answered soft the thrush; And sweet the pearl-like dew-drops hung Upon the white thorn bush. O happy day, eight years ago! We parted without pain: The blackbird sings, primroses blow; When shall we meet again? THE LOVER'S INVITATION Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere, And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue, Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave, And walk with one that loves thee? When the even's tiny tears bead upon the grassy spears, And the spider's lace is wet with its pinhead blebs of dew, Wilt thou lay thy work aside and walk by brooklets dim descried, Where I delight to love thee? While thy footfall lightly press'd tramples by the skylark's nest, And the cockle's streaky eyes mark the snug place where it lies, Mary, put thy work away, and walk at dewy close o' day With me to kiss and love thee. There's something in the time so sweet, when lovers in the evening meet, The air so still, the sky so mild, like slumbers of the cradled child, The moon looks over fields of love, among the ivy sleeps the dove: To see thee is to love thee. NATURE'S DARLING Sweet comes the morning In Nature's adorning, And bright shines the dew on the buds of the thorn, Where Mary Ann rambles Through the sloe trees and brambles; She's sweeter than wild flowers that open at morn; She's a rose in the dew; She's pure and she's true; She's as gay as the poppy that grows in the corn. Her eyes they are bright, Her bosom's snow white, And her voice is like songs of the birds in the grove. She's handsome and bonny, And fairer than any, And her person and actions are Nature's and love. She has the bloom of all roses, She's the breath of sweet posies, She's as pure as the brood in the nest of the dove. Of Earth's fairest daughters, Voiced like falling waters, She walks down the meadows, than blossoms more fair. O her bosom right fair is, And her rose cheek so rare is, And parted and lovely her glossy black hair. Her bosom's soft whiteness! The sun in its brightness Has never been seen so bewilderingly fair. The dewy grass glitters, The house swallow twitters, And through the sky floats in its visions of bliss; The lark soars on high, On cowslips dews lie, And the last days of Summer are nothing like this. When Mary Ann rambles Through hedgerows and brambles, The soft gales of Spring are the seasons of bliss. I'LL DREAM UPON THE DAYS TO COME