LUCY. A SONG
1
THY favourite Bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o’er the dale;
The Stream’s let loose, and from the Mill
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet; so lightly on its way, 5
Seems to whisper, ‘Holiday.’
2
The pathway flowers that bending meet
And give the Meads their yellow hue,
The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for you. 10
Why then, Lucy, why delay?
Let us share the Holiday.
3
Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,
To Beauty be the homage paid; 15
Come, claim the triumph of the Green,
Here’s my hand, come, come away?
Share the merry Holiday.
4
A promise too my Lucy made,
(And shall my heart its claim resign?) 20
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark’ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.
(1)
(1)
[1st edn, 1st state adds note:] Lively and interesting. C. L.] omitted in 1st edn,
2nd state and later edns
2nd state and later edns