Young Jenny was a bonny thing As ever wakened in the Spring, And blythe she to herself could sing At milking o' the kye. She loved to hear the old crows croak Upon the ash tree and the oak, And noisy pies that almost spoke At milking o' the kye. She crop't the wild thyme every night, Scenting so sweet the dewy light, And hid it in her breast so white At milking o' the kye. I met and clasped her in my arms, The finest flower on twenty farms; Her snow-white breast my fancy warms At milking o' the kye. A LOVER'S VOWS Scenes of love and days of pleasure, I must leave them all, lassie. Scenes of love and hours of leisure, All are gone for aye, lassie. No more thy velvet-bordered dress My fond and longing een shall bless, Thou lily in the wilderness; And who shall love thee then, lassie? Long I've watched thy look so tender, Often clasped thy waist so slender: Heaven, in thine own love defend her, God protect my own lassie. By all the faith I've shown afore thee, I'll swear by more than that, lassie: By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee, Though we should part for aye, lassie! By thy infant years so loving, By thy woman's love so moving, That white breast thy goodness proving, I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie! By the sun that shines for ever, By love's light and its own Giver, Who loveth truth and leaveth never, I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie! THE FALL OF THE YEAR The Autumn's come again, And the clouds descend in rain, And the leaves are fast falling in the wood; The Summer's voice is still, Save the clacking of the mill And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood. There's nothing in the mead But the river's muddy speed, And the willow leaves all littered by its side. Sweet voices are all still In the vale and on the hill, And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride. Fled is the cuckoo's note To countries far remote, And the nightingale is vanished from the woods; If you search the lordship round There is not a blossom found, And where the hay-cock scented is the flood. My true love's fled away Since we walked 'mid cocks of hay, On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year; And she's nowhere to be seen On the meadow or the green, But she's coming when the happy Spring is near. When the birds begin to sing, And the flowers begin to spring, And the cowslips in the meadows reappear, When the woodland oaks are seen In their monarchy of green, Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here. AUTUMN I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.