Mary Dove
Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales
To charm my lover’s ear:
Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales
Where’er she shall appear;
And gently wave the meadow grass
Where soft she sets her feet,
For my love is a country lass,
And bonny as she’s sweet.
The hedges only seem to mourn,
The willow boughs to sigh,
Though sunshine o’er the meads sojourn,
To cheer me where I lie:
The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn
Sings loud his Summer lay;
He seems to sing, both eve and morn,
“She wanders here to-day.”
The skylark in the summer cloud
One cheering anthem sings,
And Mary often wanders out
To watch his trembling wings.
I’ll wander down the river way,
And wild flower posies make,
For Nature whispers all the day
She can’t her promise break.
The meads already wear a smile,
The river runs more bright,
For down the path and o’er the stile
The maiden comes in sight.
The scene begins to look divine;
We’ll by the river walk.
Her arm already seems in mine,
And fancy hears her talk.
A vision, this, of early love:
The meadow, river, rill,
Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove,
Are in my memory still.