The gold furze was in blossom, So was the daisy too; The dew-drops on the little flowers Were emeralds in hue. On this same Summer morning, Though then the Sabbath day, He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, Beneath the whitethorn may. He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, And said if they would keep They'd tell me of love's fantasies, For dews on them did weep. And I did weep at parting, Which lasted all the week; And when he turned for starting My full heart could not speak. The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers Beneath the same haw-tree; I crop't them in morn's dewy hours, And here love's offerings be. O come to me my sailor beau And ease my aching breast; The storms shall cease to rave and blow, And here thy life find rest." THE SAILOR'S RETURN The whitethorn is budding and rushes are green, The ivy leaves rustle around the ash tree, On the sweet sunny bank blue violets are seen, That tremble beneath the wild hum of the bee. The sunbeams they play on the brook's plashy ripples, Like millions of suns in each swirl looking on; The rush nods and bows till its tasseled head tipples Right into the wimpled flood, kissing the stones. 'T was down in the cow pasture, just at the gloaming, I met a young woman sweet tempered and mild, I said "Pretty maiden, say, where are you roving?" "I'm walking at even," she answered, and smiled. "Here my sweetheart and I gathered posies at even; It's eight years ago since they sent him to sea. Wild flowers hung with dew are like angels from heaven: They look up in my face and keep whispering to me. They whisper the tales that were told by my true love; In the evening and morning they glisten with dew; They say (bonny blossoms) 'I'll ne'er get a new love; I love her; she's kindly.' I say, 'I love him too.'" The passing-by stranger's a stranger no longer; He kissed off the teardrop which fell from her e'e; With blue-jacket and trousers he is bigger and stronger; 'T is her own constant Willy returned from the sea. BIRDS, WHY ARE YE SILENT? Why are ye silent, Birds? Where do ye fly? Winter's not violent, With such a Spring sky. The wheatlands are green, snow and frost are away, Birds, why are ye silent on such a sweet day? By the slated pig-stye The redbreast scarce whispers: Where last Autumn's leaves lie The hedge sparrow just lispers. And why are the chaffinch and bullfinch so still, While the sulphur primroses bedeck the wood hill? The bright yellow-hammers Are strutting about, All still, and none stammers A single note out. From the hedge starts the blackbird, at brook side to drink: I thought he'd have whistled, but he only said "prink." The tree-creeper hustles Up fir's rusty bark; All silent he bustles; We needn't say hark. There's no song in the forest, in field, or in wood, Yet the sun gilds the grass as though come in for good.