Oh, sweet was the eve when I came from the mill,
Adown the green windings of Mulberry hill:
My heart like a bird with his throat all in tune,
That sings in the beautiful bosom of June.
For there, at her spinning, beneath a broad tree,
By a rivulet shining and blue as the sea,
I first saw my Mary--her tiny feet bare,
And the buds of the sumach among her black hair.
They called me a bold enough youth, and I would
Have kept the name honestly earned, if I could;
But somehow, the song I had whistled was hushed,
And, spite of my manhood, I felt that I blushed.
I would tell you, but words cannot paint my delight,
When she gave the red buds for a garland of white,
When her cheeks with soft blushes--but no, 't is in vain!
Enough that I loved, and she loved me again.
Three summers have come and gone by with their charms,
And a cherub of purity smiles in my arms,
With lips like the rosebud and locks softly light
As the flax which my Mary was spinning that night.
And in the dark shadows of Mulberry hill,
By the grass-covered road where I came from the mill,
And the rivulet shining and blue as the sea,
My Mary lies sleeping beneath the broad tree.